The Distant Machine
The letter is dated November 14th, 1893, and it sits on the desk before you, the paper already yellowed by the damp air of the attic where it has lived for a century. You are not the man who wrote it, yet as you trace the faded ink with a finger that feels too large for the delicate script, the boundaries of your skin begin to thin, becoming permeable to the cold weight of his guilt. He was...
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