The Distant Machine
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, smelling faintly of damp wool and the iron tang of old blood, which was not unusual for correspondence from the Ministry, but the weight of it in Elias’s hands suggested a finality that made his stomach turn. He was an old man, his knees grinding like rusted hinges, and he sat in the high-backed chair by the window of his study, watching the rain streak the...
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