The Distant Machine
The letter lay upon the mahogany desk, its seal unbroken, a small circle of wax the color of dried blood. To the observer, it was merely a piece of correspondence, a bureaucratic artifact of the Ministry of Reclamation, resting amidst a scatter of blueprints and coffee stains. But to Elias Thorne, it was the weight of a world ending. He did not open it. He did not need to. The knowledge had...
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