The rain hit the tin roof like gravel.
Miles sat at the table.
The wood groaned.
He was a carpenter.
Hands rough as bark.
Joints precise.
Outside, the world was gray.
Inside, the air was thick.
It smelled of pine and old sweat.
A knock came.
Three raps.
Hard.
Miles did not move.
He looked at the window.
The glass fogged.
A breath?
No.
Just the cold.
He stood up.
His knees popped.
He walked to...
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