The Wistful Incense
The pickaxe bit into the black seam with a dull, grinding crunch, and Elias Thorne felt the vibration travel up through the leather of his gloves, into the bone of his wrist, and settle as a deep, throbbing ache in his shoulder. He was forty years old, and the coal had taken ten of those years from him, leaving him with a cough that rattled like loose change in a tin cup and hands that shook...
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