The Faded Frontier
The shift supervisor’s voice cracked through the static of the overhead speakers, a tinny, distorted rasp that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of Margaret’s bones. She stood at the edge of the loom, her fingers stained with the indigo dye that had long since worked its way into the whorls of her fingerprints, a permanent tattoo of her labor. The air in the textile mill was thick, a...
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