The Distant Machine
The dream began not with a face or a place, but with the smell of damp wool and the suffocating, metallic taste of iron filings that clung to the back of her throat, a sensory ghost of the old textile mills in Manchester where she had spent the first twenty years of her life before the world had somehow, impossibly, shifted its axis to place her here, in the gilded, airless corridors of the...
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