The Distant Machine
The glass lay in the center of the table, fractured into a dozen jagged shards that caught the pale, gray light of the afternoon and threw it back in cold, hard flashes. Margaret Holloway did not move. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, the fabric of her cardigan worn thin at the elbows, and watched the silence gather in the room like a physical weight, pressing against her eardrums,...
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