The Distant Ghost
"Hold the line, Eli. Don't let go of that knot." The voice was slurred, thick with the taste of cheap rye and the cold, but it was Thomas’s voice, and in the grey dawn of that January morning in 1912, it was the only thing anchoring me to the earth. I was thirty years old, my hands raw and bleeding from the coal dust that had settled into the creases of my skin since I was twelve, and I was...
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