The Distant Whispers
The dream was always the same, a recurring loop of black slurry and white bone that Elias Thorne woke from with his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, the soot of the Appalachian coal fields settling in the creases of his face and the folds of his worn shirt. It was November of 1924, and the air in the valley hung thick with the smell of damp earth and machine oil, a scent...
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