The Wistful Ashes
Act I The mill town of Hush Harbor churned under the grey sky, a place where the river changed its mind every year and the industry of lace-making bled its workers blind, one thread at a time, until the street was nothing but a procession of the sightless and the shivering. I stood at the reclaim dome, my hands steady as stone, watching the printed streets of our poverty blur into a single,...
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