The Golden Master
The iron lungs of the new mill in Ashworth-on-Tyne breathed a constant, rhythmic sigh that settled over the village like a shroud, turning the morning fog into a grey paste that caked onto the windows and the faces of those who dared to step outside. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair of the Director’s office, a room that smelled of polished mahogany, stale tobacco, and the faint,...
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