The Distant Machine
The last entry in the logbook was dated three days prior, and the ink had not fully dried, a wet, dark smear that mirrored the dampness rising from the concrete floor of the bunker, a space so small that the hum of the ventilation fans seemed to vibrate directly in the marrow of Thomas’s bones, a constant, low-frequency thrum that he had long ago stopped distinguishing from the rhythm of his...
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