The Faded Road
The ink on the ledger is still wet when you realize you have been betrayed. It is a Tuesday, the kind that smells of damp wool and coal dust, inside the iron-walled office of the Ashworth & Sons Textile Mill. You are holding the pen, the nib scratching against the paper, but the sound has stopped in your ears. Outside, the looms are clacking like the teeth of a hungry animal. Inside, the...
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