The Distant Machine
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the paper thick and cream-colored, smelling faintly of the iron dust that clung to everything in the mill town of Harrowgate, a scent that had settled into the weave of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s wool uniform and, he suspected, into the very marrow of his bones. He held the envelope in his hands, the fingers white-knuckled against the wax seal, while outside the...
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