Kyle trudged through the streets, his boots sinking into the wet, uneven road. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and oil, the noise of steam engines relentless as they groaned above him. All around him, the poor shuffled, their faces gaunt and weary, their voices hoarse from hunger. Kyle’s heart sank as he looked at them. They were like ghosts—souls lost in the sprawling city that had no room for men like him.

  He paused before a large factory, its stone walls blackened by soot, a mass of smoke rising from its chimneys. Wilford & Co. Steam Engine Manufacturers, the sign above the door proclaimed. Kyle had heard of the factory—its need for workers. Desperation made him bold, and he stepped forward.

  Inside, a stout foreman with a face like stone stood watching him. His eyes narrowed as he took in Kyle’s calloused hands.

  "You," the foreman grunted, "you look like a farm lad. Not fit for factory work."

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  "I can learn," Kyle said, voice rough from days without proper food. "Please, I just need a chance."

  The foreman snorted. "Learn? We don’t have time for teaching. Get out."

  The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Kyle standing on the cold, muddy street. He felt his last bit of hope slip away like water through his fingers.

  As he walked on, memories of his past life flooded his mind. The rolling hills of his farm, the laughter of his wife, Lilian, and the gentle touch of his daughter, Emma. Those memories seemed like another life, far beyond the reach of the grimy streets that now surrounded him.

  With nothing left but the bitter ache of his lost family and his dignity, Kyle sought out another factory. Then another. But each time, the result was the same—rejected. His body was weary, ill-suited for the machines that now ruled the world.

  At night, he lay in a damp room above a noisy tavern, the sounds of drunken revelry mocking the emptiness that gnawed at his soul. The city had no place for him. The steam machines offered no warmth, no hope, only a cold, mechanical future.