The Faded Frontier
The brass compass slid through Eugene Muncy’s fingers, slick with sweat and the residue of years, as he walked the perimeter of the mill floor. It was 1912, and the air in Oakhaven tasted of wet coal and iron, a heavy, industrial tang that settled in the lungs of every man who worked the looms. Eugene, thirty-four and hollowed out by a grief he could not name, tightened his grip on the...
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