The Wistful Show
The ledger is in the gears. Elara Vane said this to the floor, not to anyone in particular, while the rhythmic thud of the power looms hammered against the soles of her boots. The air in the Blackwood Textile Mill tasted of wet wool and rust, a thick, metallic tang that coated the back of her throat before she even opened her eyes. It was 1924, and the night shift had begun three hours prior, a...
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