The Wistful Letter
The boiler hisses. It is a wet, hungry sound. You stand in the cellar of the old textile mill, the air thick with the scent of rust and damp wool. Your hands are stained black with grease. You wipe them on your trousers. The motion is automatic. You are the caretaker. You are the man who keeps the steam flowing. The building groans above you. It is a structure of iron and brick, a beast that...
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