The Distant Machine
The iron gate of the Abbey of St. Jude groaned against the stone as you forced it open, the sound a low, mournful shriek that echoed off the damp walls of the cloister, and you stood there, your hands trembling not from the cold that had seeped through your woolen robes but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that followed, a silence that felt less like an absence of sound and more...
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