The Distant Machine
The stone is cold. You know this. You press your palm against the wall of the chapel and feel the chill seep into the bone. It is a solid thing. It does not yield. It does not apologize. It simply exists, holding up the weight of the roof, the weight of the sky, the weight of the centuries. You are here because you must be. The summons came at dawn, carried by a boy with ink-stained fingers and...
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