The Distant Ghost
The shawl hung from the spindle like a ghost caught in the loom’s teeth. Elara Vance reached out, her fingers brushing the translucent fabric, and felt a warmth that had no business existing in the freezing November air of the Blackwood Mill. It was not cotton, nor wool, nor silk she knew; it shimmered with an oily, iridescent sheen that seemed to pulse in rhythm with her own terrified...
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