The Wistful Mirror
The iron lungs wheezed, a rhythmic, mechanical groan that seemed to synchronize with the dripping of condensation from the high, soot-stained rafters of the factory floor. I was not there to inspect the looms, though that was what my badge said, and though that was what the men in the boardroom in London had asked for. I was there to find the leak in the soul of the machine, the place where the...
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