The Distant Summer
The calibration light blinked red, a slow, rhythmic pulse that matched the failing beat of my heart. I sat in the high-backed chair, the leather cracked and dry, staring at the small, brass-colored eye of the machine. It was an old instrument, a relic from the days when steam and copper still ruled the factory floor, now repurposed for a task of far greater precision. My daughter, Elara, stood...
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