The Distant Machine
The letter arrived on a Tuesday. Rain tapped against the glass of the window, a rhythmic, insistent drumming that matched the beating in Thomas’s chest. He sat in his study, a room that smelled of damp wool and old paper. The envelope was thick. Heavy. It bore no return address, only his name, written in an ink so black it looked like a bruise. Inside was a single page. And a key. The key was...
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