The Wistful Petal
You wake to the sound of the loom, a rhythmic clicking that feels less like machinery and more like a heartbeat. It is the industrial hum of the textile mill in Harrowgate, a town that smells of coal dust and damp wool. You are Thomas Ashworth, and you hold in your hands a single, impossible object: a button. It is not made of bone, or brass, or plastic. It is made of pressed light, a wistful...
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