The Distant Journey
Act I "Stop the loom, Kourosh." The night watchman’s voice was thin, scraped raw by the dry season air that hung over the quarry lake, unnaturally blue and hard. Kourosh Jafari did not stop. He was a bridge carpenter by trade, but for ten years he had been the senior foreman of this textile mill, a fortress colony where loyalty was rationed like grain in a famine year. The loom hummed, a low...
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