The Distant Machine
The letter is dated the fourteenth of November, though the ink has bled into a dark, rust-colored smear where a drop of sweat or perhaps blood fell upon the page. You are reading it now, in the quiet hum of the archive room, the air thick with the scent of decaying paper and the faint, metallic tang of the old heating vents. The writer is Sergeant Elias Thorne, a man whose name you know only...
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