The Faded Photograph
The locket was cold against Arthur’s palm, a small, heavy thing that hummed with the static of three years’ silence. He wiped the tarnish away with a chamois cloth, the fabric stiff and dry, scratching softly against the silver as the mill’s steam whistle shrieked its two-minute warning from the yard below. The sound was a physical blow, rattling the windowpane in its frame, and for a moment...
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