The Faded River
The thread count was wrong. I counted the stitches on the sleeve of the grey wool coat, forty-two, but the pattern called for forty-four, and the discrepancy meant two more hours of needlework before the piece could be sent to the finishing room. My fingers were numb, the cold from the mill floor having seeped through the soles of my boots and into the marrow of my bones. I set the needle down,...
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