The Wistful Grid
The ink on the rejected petition was still wet when Elara Vance began to tear it. She stood in the cramped office of the Halloway Textile Mill, the November air thick with the smell of machine oil and damp wool, and she shredded the paper into thin, useless ribbons. Her hands trembled, not from the cold, but from the sheer, physical exhaustion of holding a breath she had held for three months....
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