The Golden Echoes
The fog in Oakhaven did not merely obscure; it weighed. It pressed against the windows of the textile mill like a wet, grey hand, muffling the clatter of the looms and the coughs of the workers. I am Margaret Holloway, thirty-two years old, and I have spent the last decade inspecting the weave of other people’s lives, counting threads, finding flaws, ensuring that the fabric holds. I was here...
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