The Faded Chronicle
The banquet hall of the Whitmore Textile Mill hummed with a low, industrial thrum that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards beneath the polished mahogany tables, a constant mechanical heartbeat that undergirded the clinking of silverware and the muffled laughter of the workforce. Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long table, his hands resting flat on the white linen, his knuckles white...
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