The Distant Machine
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, carried by a wind that smelled of wet wool and ancient stone, its envelope sealed with wax the color of dried blood. It was addressed to me in a hand that trembled, the ink bleeding slightly into the parchment as if the writer’s own life were seeping out of the words. I am writing this from the edge of the world, where the fog rolls in from the sea like a grey...
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