The Distant Machine
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with wax the color of dried blood, bearing a crest of a thistle entangled in wire. Elias Thorne, a clerk of modest rank in the Department of Civic Hygiene, found the parchment trembling in his hand, not from fear, but from the sheer, impossible weight of its origin. It was written in the cramped, slanting hand of his former mentor, Silas Vane, a man who...
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