The Distant Machine
The letter is written on paper that smells of damp wool and old candle wax. My hand shook when I held the quill, but I forced the ink to stay straight. I am writing this to you, Thomas, though I know you are gone, and I know that the world has shifted its axis while we were not looking. It is the night before the solstice, and the wind outside the window of the infirmary is howling like a...
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