The Pale Tower
The iron key bit into Baraka Alemu’s palm, the rust flaking off onto the damp stone floor as he hauled the heavy door-pivot into place, the bronze surface slick with the cold January sweat of the mill. He was forty years old, his hands mapped with the white scars of a life spent among the gears, and the low-frequency hum of the machinery vibrated in his teeth, a sound he had accepted as the...
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