The Distant Ghost
Act I Who is the man that the fog remembers when the living forget him? Jose Zuniga stood at the edge of the river, the cold biting at his knuckles as he held the bronze mirror polished to duty. It was a small thing, tarnished at the edges, but it caught the grey light of the industrial dawn. He was thirty-four, and his body felt like a machine that had run too long without oil. The mill at...
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