The Wistful Saga
The rain in Ashworth Hall does not fall so much as it is pressed against the glass by the weight of the industrial age, a relentless, soot-streaked curtain that blurs the line between the moor and the machinery inside. You are Elias, thirty-four years old, your fingers stained permanently with the indigo and ochre of the dye vats, and you stand in the shadow of the Great Hall where the air...
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