The Distant Machine
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the old district into a mirror that reflected the grey, bruised sky with a fidelity that felt almost accusatory. I sat in the booth of a diner that smelled of burnt coffee and damp wool, watching the water bead on the windowpane, each drop a small, perfect sphere of sorrow before it merged with the next. My uniform was pressed...
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