The Distant Ghost
The morning fog burned off by ten, revealing the sixty-three of the Old Brick kilns that had once stood in a row, now reduced to a spit of eroding earth where the night bus used to run its last, rattling leg. Wieslaw Wozniak remembered the cold of that final run, the way the radiator clanked against the freezing glass, and how he had held the letter from his wife, Zofia, against his chest like...
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