The Pale Bridge
The soot of the city did not settle so much as it grew, a black lichen on every surface of the iron and brick in 1924. Elias Thorne stood on the central span of the Pale Bridge, his boots grinding against the white stone that had once been the pride of the district. He was a bridge inspector, a man whose life was measured in the integrity of load-bearing arches, and today he was fighting a war...
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