The Wistful Saga
The dream began not with light, but with the heavy, suffocating scent of wet wool and machine oil, a stench that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a physical weight. In the dream, he stood in the center of the vast, cavernous floor of the Blackwood Textile Mill in the industrial outskirts of Leeds, where the air was thick enough to chew on, suspended in a haze of lint and gray...
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