The Faded River
You know the weight of a thread before it breaks. You have spent your life in the mill, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and machine oil. Your hands are mapped with scars, white lines tracing the geography of your labor. You are a master weaver. Your name is Elias, though in the high-rise above the factory floor, they call you Unit Seven. You do not mind the number. It is cleaner than...
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