The Pale Letter
The foreman’s whistle shrieked across the yard, a thin, jagged sound that cut through the coal dust hanging in the October air, and Elias Vane flinched as if struck. It was 1893, and the light was already failing, turning the soot-stained walls of Oakhaven into a bruised purple. Elias stood in the mill office, his twelve-year-old hands trembling around a stub of coal pencil, staring at the pale...
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