The Pale Bridge
The sky cracked open above the mill. It was not a thunderstorm. It was a breach. A jagged tear of white light split the gray afternoon, hanging there like a wound that refused to close. You stood at the edge of the floor, your hands still dusted with the fine, pale powder of the silk. The loom behind you was silent. It had been silent for three days. You did not look up. You knew what was...
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