The Distant Machine
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, smelling faintly of wet wool and the iron tang of the road, sliding under the heavy oak door of the watchtower before the first light had fully peeled itself from the horizon. Aldous Vane, the night watchman of the high gate, picked it up with hands that had long since forgotten how to tremble, though his mind still raged like a storm trapped in a bottle. The...
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