The Golden Crossing
The air inside the mill did not merely smell of wet wool and machine oil; it tasted of copper, a sharp metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and settled in the lungs like fine, grey silt, a particulate matter that the overseer, a man named Mr. Thorne with eyes as flat and unyielding as river stones, claimed was the very essence of productivity, the invisible tax one paid to the...
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