The Distant Machine

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2026-08-18 08:57:49 -

The ink had dried before she could wipe her hand. Margaret looked at the stain. It was black. Deep. It sat on the white linen like a bruise that would not heal. She was a scribe. A maker of words. Her life was etched in parchment. Her soul was the paper. She wiped her sleeve. The mark remained. "Is it done?" Thomas asked from the doorway. He held a tray. Bread. Cheese. A wedge of dark fruit....

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