The Wistful Grid
The hum was in my teeth again, a low, grinding vibration that tasted of iron and old dust, and I could feel it spreading from the molars down into the jawbone, a physical weight that made it hard to keep my eyes open while I stared at the ledger. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and I am writing this to you, Clara, from the back office of the Sterling Iron Works, where the air is thick...
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