The Distant Machine
The ink in the pot had begun to dry, forming a skin of iridescent dust over the black liquid, a mirror that reflected nothing but the grey light of the mill. Elias Thorne sat at his desk in the basement office of the Harrowgate Textile Works, the silence pressing against his eardrums like deep water. He was a man who had carried his life in a single leather satchel, arriving in this industrial...
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