The Pale Circus
The factory floor shook. It was a tremor, but not from the earth. It came from the machines. They screamed. Then they stopped. One by one. The silence was worse than the noise. I stood there. My hands were dirty. Oil. Rust. Sweat. My father’s shop. My father’s life. Now just metal. Cold and dead. "Stop that," I said. My voice was small. The air felt thin. "Stop it, you thing." It didn’t move....
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