The Wistful Saga
Act I The mill at one hundred and nine of Gallows Corner ground the morning into dust, a rhythmic pounding that shook the teeth in the skulls of every worker on the shift. The steam rose in white plumes against the clear, offending sky, turning the air into a thick, humid blanket that made breathing a labor. Homer Fenwick stood at the edge of the yard, his hands heavy with the weight of a clay...
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