The Distant Machine
The ink had barely dried on the final line of the treatise when the first crack appeared in the glass of the window pane, a hairline fracture that snaked through the cold November air with the slow, deliberate grace of a spiderweb, and I watched it with the detached fascination of a man observing the inevitable decay of his own reflection, for I am, or was, the Keeper of the Local Memory, the...
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