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2026-08-13 09:00:25 -

The Distant Loom

They told me at breakfast that the mill would close. Not next month. Not when the boilers gave out. Today—right now, at nine minutes past eight, while the egg sat cooling on my plate and my father's hands moved across the toast in slow, practiced sweeps. "The inspectors came last night," he said. "Structural decay. asbestos in the western wing." He did not look up. "They're sealing it by...

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