The Distant Garden
The pneumatic press did not merely make a sound; it exhaled a low, resonant hum that vibrated the iron filings on the floor into rigid, geometric lattices, a phenomenon the senior foremen dismissed as a quirk of the new hydraulic system while I, a twelve-year-old junior clerk with grease under my fingernails and a ledger of debts in my head, watched the patterns shift from triangles to hexagons...
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