The Pale Mist
The rain hits the window of the observatory with a rhythmic, bruising force, and you are trying to keep the glass intact while the storm outside screams. You stand in the center of the circular room, your hands wrapped around the rim of the great brass telescope, your knuckles white, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps that fog in the cold air. The year is 1912, and the world is a machine...
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