The Distant Machine
The letters arrived on a Tuesday, smelling faintly of damp wool and the ozone tang of the city’s perpetual overcast, and I remember thinking then, as I do now in the quiet of this exile, that the sound of the seal breaking was louder than the thunder that rolled over the spires of St. Jude’s that very afternoon. It was a letter from the Guild, the one I had sworn to serve with my hands and my...
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