The Wistful Crossroads
The ledger showed three hundred and twelve hours of labor, a sum that weighed heavier than the iron gears Elias Thorne had spent the previous night trying to align. He sat at the edge of the mill’s floor, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the vibration of the machinery that hummed against his palms, a low, persistent thrum that felt less like sound and more like a physical pressure...
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