The Distant Metropolis
The air in the house was thick with the smell of varnish and old dust, a sensory weight that pressed against Elias Thorne’s eardrums like a low-frequency hum from a dying generator, and he stood in the center of the living room, his hands clasped behind his back in a rigid posture that had once commanded respect in the field but now felt merely like a cage for his own trembling fingers, as he...
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