The Distant Machine
The ledger in your hand is not merely a record of debts but a boundary, a thin sheet of paper that separates the ordered silence of the office from the chaotic, breathing life outside the rain-slicked windows of the mill, and you hold it with the careful, reverent grip of a man holding a sacred text that he knows, with a dread that has settled into his marrow, is slowly being ground to dust by...
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