The Distant Machine

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2026-08-20 11:46:55 -

The wool coat hung on the hook by the door. It was my father’s. The grey fabric was heavy, smelling of damp earth and old tobacco. I wore it often. It felt like armor. It felt like a shroud. I am writing this from the cell in the basement of the old estate. The walls are stone. The air is cold. My hands are bound with the silk from the coat’s lining. I cut it free with a broken spoon. The silk...

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