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Eight year old Tim wakes at 3am every workday. After slipping on his work rags, he leaves his crumbling house in the mill village, and heads for the textile factory.
He swings open the factory door, the rush of dusty air making him cough. It was dark inside, the only light seeping through the moonlit windows.
The slamming of the door echos through the building, followed by the subtle click of a lock. Tim is trapped in the factory until lunch break.
Tim makes his way to the spinning machine. His bare feet dancing across the wooden floor, in a feeble attempt to avoid the terrible splinters. Lint hovers throughout the air, daring for him to breath it in and get brown lung.
After saying hello to his fellow doffers, Tim gets straight to work. It isn't long before he finds a steady rhythm in replacing each full bobbin with an empty one. He hums lightly to himself, trying to ignore the hot and stuffy atmosphere.
At 6pm the workday is finally over. His hands and body ached from the 14 hours of labor. Covered in filth the child makes his way to the office to retrieve his weekly pay. With a scowl his boss hands him a measly 15 cents.
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