The Rusting Loom

Iron teeth surrender to the damp, a slow bloom of orange dust settling across the silent factory floor, where threads of wool once hummed like breath.

Shadows stretch across the shattered glass, pooling in the hollows of the wooden spools. The ghost of a pattern still lingers in the air, woven into the rafters by a century of hands.

Now only the ivy works the machinery, green fingers creeping over the gears, spinning a quiet tapestry of moss to cover the long, deep sleep of industry.