The Distant Machine
The letter was dated October the fourth. It sat on the kitchen table, a pale rectangle against the dark wood, untouched by the morning light that crept through the blinds. Silas Vane did not move. He stood by the sink, water running over his hands, the sound a low, steady hum that filled the silence of the house. The water was cold. It bit into his skin, a sharp, clean pain that grounded him....
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