The Wistful Saga
The mud in the yard behind the Ashworth textile mill is not merely wet; it is a living, breathing thing that swallows the footfalls of every man who walks it, and in the grey dawn of November, 1912, you are on your knees in it, digging with fingers that have turned the color of old bruises. You are looking for the shuttle, the small, brass cylinder that your father, Thomas Ashworth, lost three...
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