The Distant Machine
The rain does not fall; it hammers, a rhythmic, metallic percussion against the slate roof that sounds less like weather and more like the grinding of gears in a vast, unseen engine. You are wet to the bone, the cold a physical weight that settles in your marrow, yet you do not shiver. You are too busy counting the seconds between the lightning flashes and the thunder that follows, a metronome...
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