The Distant Metropolis
The rain taps a rhythmic, hollow code against the leaded glass of the archive room, a sound that has become the only clock you trust. You sit in the high-backed chair, the wood worn smooth by centuries of anxious hands, and you feel the weight of your left hand. It is a heavy thing, this hand of yours. It is not broken, nor is it diseased, but it feels detached, as if it belongs to a stranger...
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