The Distant Whispers
Kael in the late nineties was a place of rusted reclamation yards and the heavy, wet silence of the bogs, a town where the milk trucks left at four and the rent collectors arrived at six. The industry of the day was decay, measured in the slow corrosion of the great turbines standing like dead sentinels along the coast, their iron skin flaking into the grey mud. In the workshop above the old...
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