The Faded Root
The dampness in the cellar of the Ashworth Mill did not smell merely of wet stone and rusted iron, but of something older, a thick, cloying sweetness that clung to the back of the throat and settled in the lungs like fine soot, a pervasive whisper that seemed to emanate from the very weave of the looms themselves, which stood in silent, rhythmic rows, breathing in and out with a slow,...
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