The Distant Machine
The letter sat on the desk, its envelope unopened, a pale rectangle of silence against the dark mahogany, and Thomas Bradshaw stared at it until the ink in his eye seemed to dry and crack under the weight of the room’s oppressive stillness, the air so thick with the scent of cedar and old paper that he felt he was breathing in the very dust of his own decline. He was a man who had built his...
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