The Wistful Saga
The ink is still wet on the ledger when I hear the heavy thud of the main gate, a sound that has echoed through the brick walls of the Ashworth Pumping Station for twenty-two years. I do not look up immediately. I am adjusting the valve on the third intake line, my hands steady, my breath controlled, a man who has made his peace with the rhythm of the water. It is a Tuesday in November, 1912,...
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