The Distant Machine
The rain against the glass of the attic window is not a sound but a vibration, a low-frequency hum that you feel in your molars before it registers in your ears, and you are sitting in the center of the floorboards, your spine pressed flat against the cold wood, holding the small, copper-colored bird that does not breathe but does not die, a creature of intricate, mechanical gears that chime...
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