It’s 1942. The world is on fire. And even on our quiet little rock at the edge of the Atlantic — St. John’s, Newfoundland — no one could pretend we were safe.
That year, something eerie blanketed the city, something that still haunts old-timers' stories whispered over kitchen tables and mugs of tea. A blackout. A real, ordered-by-the-military, clamp-down…
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