The Wistful Ashes
The flour sifted through Elias Thorne’s fingers in a dry, white cloud that smelled of iron and old smoke, settling on the blackened linoleum of the communal kitchen where the air hung thick and damp with the humidity of the industrial district. His hands, mapped with the blue veins of a man who had worked the textile mills for thirty years before the Exile, trembled violently as he measured out...
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