The Pale Door
The banquet hall of the Whitmore Textile Mill smelled of stale beer, damp wool, and the metallic tang of sweat that had long since dried into the skin of the workers. It was a celebration of the new loom, a machine of such imposing, iron-clad grandeur that it seemed less a tool of production and more a monument to human endurance. You stood at the edge of the floor, your hands tucked into the...
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