The Pale Banner
The air in the hall tasted of burnt sugar and stale tobacco, a thick, cloying mixture that hung heavy over the table where forty men sat in the dim amber glow of the chandeliers, their faces illuminated by the flickering light like masks carved from pale wood. It was the annual gala for the union of the old brickyard, a celebration of a decade without strike, a decade of silence, a decade where...
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