The Pale Banner
The loom in the basement of the Ashworth Mill did not merely click; it breathed. In the damp, coal-stained air of Oakhaven, 1912, the rhythm of the shuttles was less a mechanical sound and more a pulse, a heavy, wet thud that seemed to originate from the bones of the earth itself. Elias Thorne, twelve years old and thin as a whip, sat before the great wooden frame, his fingers moving with a...
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