The Pale Dance
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the mud around the mill into a slick, sucking mire that threatened to swallow Elias’s boots whole. He stood before the heavy oak door of the mill, his hand resting on the iron handle, feeling the cold metal bite into his palm even through his wool glove. Inside, the loom sat silent, a skeleton of wood and wire that had once produced the finest...
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