The Faded Portrait
Act I In the high, grey light of the mill, silence is a commodity that must be purchased with noise. The looms do not stop; they only shift their pitch, a low, grinding hum that settles into the bones of anyone who works within the stone walls of Ferraro Textiles. Teresa Ferraro stands before the great spinning wheel, her hands stained with the dark, oily residue of the wool, watching the...
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