The Distant Machine
The bus stops with a shudder that you feel in your teeth, a mechanical groan of rust and diesel that seems to vibrate through the soles of your shoes. You step out into the cold air of Harrowgate, a town that smells of wet slate and old tobacco, and look up at the building that has consumed your thoughts for three years. It is the Whitmore Institute, a sprawling brick complex on the edge of the...
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