The Faded Guest

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2026-08-24 10:13:20 -

The Faded Guest

The leather-bound ledger is cold in your hands, its cover stiff with the dried sweat of three nights’ labor, and you hold it against your chest as if it were a shield against the wind that cuts through the Blackwood Ironworks. It is November of 1912, and the air in the yard tastes of iron filings and impending snow, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and settles in the lungs...

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