The Pale Garden
"The pressure is dropping." Margaret did not look up from the valve. Her fingers, stained black with grease and oil, tightened the wrench. The metal groaned. It was a sound like a bone snapping. "Drop it, then," said Arthur. He stood by the door. His coat was dry. It was always dry. "We have a quota, Margaret. The city needs the steam. The lights need to stay on." Margaret turned. The workshop...
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