The air in Willow Creek tasted like rust and pine sap when Mara stepped off the bus, her boots crunching over gravel that whispered secrets beneath her feet. The town stretched before her—weathered clapboard houses, a diner with a flickering…
The morning air bit through Clara’s coat as she stepped off the bus, her boots crunching gravel. The town of Black Hollow stretched before her, its skeletal trees clawing at a bruised sky. She hadn’t set foot here in seventeen…
Clara Voss wiped her hands on a greasy rag, the scent of oil and burnt coal clinging to her skin like a second layer. The camp was a fever dream of dust and noise—hammers clanging, voices rising in a cacophony…