The Distant Machine
The rain has not stopped for three days, and it seeps into the stone walls of your cell with a persistent, wet whisper that sounds suspiciously like the breathing of the people you have betrayed. You sit on the straw mat, your hands resting in your lap, fingers intertwined, knuckles white from the cold that has settled deep into your joints, a cold that is no longer just of the weather but of...
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