The Distant Machine
The letter was short. It was three lines. Dear Martin. We are leaving. Come back. No signature. Just the stamp. And the date. Two days ago. Martin stood in the kitchen. The tiles were cold. He wore socks. His bare feet. The house was big. Too big. The walls breathed. They did not. But it felt like it. The air was thick. Stale. Smelling of dust. And old wood. And something else. Something wet....
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