The Faded Guest
The brickwork of the old textile mill groaned under the weight of the snow, a sound like a man clearing his throat before a long, difficult confession. I stood in the center of the loom hall, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and rust, my uniform hanging heavy on my shoulders as if it were made of lead. It was 1912, and the mill had been silent for three days, yet the silence felt louder...
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