The Wistful Saga
The dream is not a dream but a ledger, and you are the ink. You wake in the watchman’s booth, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and machine oil. Outside, the Blackwood Textile Mill groans under the weight of the November rain, a beast of iron and steam that has chewed up half the men of this valley. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two, and you have held this post for six years, long enough...
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