The Wistful Atlas
The smoke tasted of iron and old rain. Mara spat into the soot. Her tongue was black. She wiped it on her sleeve, a rag of wool gone gray with the dust of the mill. The air in the cathedral of steam was thick. It pressed against her skin. It weighed on her lungs. She was not alone. The shadows moved in the rafters. They were not shadows. They were shapes. They had the geometry of birds, but...
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