The Wistful Show
The ballroom at the Whitmore Textile Mill was a cathedral of steam and gaslight, a vast and humming organism where the air itself tasted of iron filings and the sharp, chemical tang of new dyes, and I stood in the center of it all, my dress a stiff sheet of white cotton that felt less like fabric and more like a shroud, a second skin that clung to my sweat and my shivering, a testament to the...
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