The Golden Crossing
The furnace broke on a Tuesday, which was a bad day for bad luck, and a worse day for the silence that followed. I stood in the middle of the Great Hall at the Whitmore Textile Mill, my hands still smelling of the grease and the iron dust that clung to everything in this place. The air was thick, not just with the heat that had been building for twelve hours, but with a low, humming vibration...
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