The Pale Altar
The mill in Oakhaven did not just stand; it presided. It was a monolith of soot-stained brick and iron, a structure that seemed to have grown out of the earth rather than been built upon it, its smokestacks piercing the low, perpetual fog like the fingers of a buried giant reaching for a sky that had long since forgotten how to be blue. I worked the third shift, the hours when the world outside...
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