The Pale Exile
Did you hear the loom stop? Chioma Danso asked the question to the empty air of the night floor, her voice thin against the sudden, heavy silence. The factory was a cathedral of iron and cotton, smelling of damp wool and the metallic tang of old blood, and for three seconds, the rhythmic thrum that had matched her own erratic heartbeat for weeks ceased entirely. She stood before the machine,...
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