The Weaver's Secret
The sky over Manchester in 1852 was not a sky; it was a ceiling of soot. The city breathed coal and exhaled misery, a sprawling machine of brick and iron that consumed human lives to produce bolts of cotton. Clara was a cog in that machine, a weaver whose fingers were permanently stained with oil and whose lungs felt as though they were filled with wet ash. She lived in a tenement that leaned...
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