The Golden Song
The loom screamed. It was not a mechanical sound, but a shriek of tearing flesh, a high-pitched wail that vibrated in my molars and rattled the dust in the corners of the textile mill. I stood before the great machine, my hands buried in the warp threads, trying to pull them tight, but they snapped against my palms like wet rope. The air in the factory was thick, a brown soup of cotton lint and...
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