The Distant Machine
The rain had not stopped for three days. It tapped against the leaded glass of the nursery window, a rhythmic, insistent drumming that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones. I sat by the crib, watching the chest rise and fall of my son, Arthur. He was only two, but he looked at me with eyes that held no child’s wonder. They were old eyes. They were my eyes. My hands were shaking. I held...
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