The Wistful Throne
I Oakhaven in the dry season was a place of grinding metal and held breath, the reclamation yard of dead machines humming with the low, electric static of the telephone exchange just down the hill, where the cords hung like vines in the dim, unlit rooms. The shipyard’s last whistle had blown three days ago, a sound that still seemed to vibrate in the marrow of the stone, and the air tasted of...
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