The Wistful Witness
The leather strap of the watch in your hand is worn thin at the clasp, the metal cold against your palm, a small, heavy thing that has kept time through the smoke and the sweat of your early years. You hold it now because your hands will not stop trembling, and the weight of it is the only thing that feels solid in the air of the mill floor, where the looms are humming that low, mournful note...
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