The Wistful Mountain
The ledger on the table weighed four pounds, its spine cracked and held together by twine, and Elias Thorne ran his thumb across the ink-stained page to count the hours. Two thousand, four hundred, and twelve hours of oversight for the Blackwood Ironworks, a number that had grown so large it lost its meaning, becoming instead a measure of the dust settling in the alveoli of his lungs. He stood...
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