The Wistful Mountain
The heat in the Millbrook Loomworks was not merely a temperature but a physical weight, a thick, oily blanket that pressed against the skin and stole the air from the lungs. Elias Thorne stood at the head of the line, his hand resting on the brass pocket watch that hung from his waistcoat, the metal warm and heavy against his palm. He watched the new loom, a monstrous thing of steel and...
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