The Faded Dust
The iron lung of the factory floor had been his coffin for thirty years, a rhythmic, metallic respiration that sucked the life from the air and pushed it back out, gray and heavy, into the lungs of the men who worked the looms until their shadows bled into the darkness of the mill’s belly, and in that perpetual twilight, Elias Thorne, a man whose spine had curved like a question mark under the...
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