The Pale Mist
The air in the cellar of the Ashworth & Sons textile mill was thick, not with dust, but with a humid, living presence that tasted of wet copper and old sweat. Silas Vane stood before the great loom, his fingers dancing over the loom’s keys with the fluid grace of a pianist, yet his eyes were fixed on the warp threads, watching them vibrate with a rhythm that did not match the mechanical clatter...
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