The Distant Machine
The glass did not shatter with a crash, but with a sigh, a long and trembling exhalation that seemed to pull the very air from the room, leaving it thin and cold. Elias Vane stood before the pedestal in the center of the White Hall, his hands hovering inches above the surface of the Prism, that delicate, impossible architecture of light and silica that had consumed his life for forty years. He...
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