The Distant Affair
The white shirt lay on the floor of the schoolroom, crumpled and stained with the dark, greasy residue of the mill’s machinery, and you were on your knees, scrubbing at the fabric with a bar of lye soap until your fingers bled, the cold water biting into the skin as you tried to restore the garment to its original, impossible brightness. You were twelve years old, and the weight of the cloth in...
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