The Distant Machine
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent and grey curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor smear of slate and rust, and in the quiet of his small apartment on the fourth floor of a brick walk-up, Silas Vane sat at a desk that was not a desk but a flat plank of pine balanced on two stacks of encyclopedias, his fingers trembling slightly as he held the pen that...
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