The Pale Tower
Olavi Heikkinen remembered the sound of the flag rope against the pole on the day he was fired, a dry, rhythmic slapping that seemed to mock the silence of the mill office, and he knew then that the years he had spent counting cotton bales had not bought him a future, only a longer shadow. He was forty-two of NineElm Crossing, a man whose hands had begun to tremble not from age alone but from...
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