The Distant Summer
You are standing in the middle of the breakroom, holding a mug of coffee that has gone lukewarm, and your hands are shaking so badly that the ceramic rattles against the saucer. The air is thick with the smell of burnt toast and industrial floor wax, a scent that has seeped into your clothes over the last six months at the Whitmore & Sons textile mill. You are not a manager. You are not a...
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