The Distant Machine
The wind here does not howl; it hums, a low-frequency vibration that settles in the marrow and refuses to leave. You feel it in the teeth, a grinding of enamel against the cold, a reminder that you are still flesh, still fragile, still bound to the biological clock that the Institute claims to have silenced. It is the third day of the trek. Your boots, heavy with the mud of the highlands,...
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