The Distant Machine
The letter was written in a hand that trembled, then steadied, then trembled again. It lay on the cold stone table of the archive, a scrap of parchment yellowed by centuries of dust. Margaret Holloway held it with fingers that had spent a lifetime organizing other people’s pasts. She was a clerk in the Department of Antiquities, a woman of forty who wore her hair in a severe bun and her silence...
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