The Distant Machine
The rain has been falling on the slate roof of the Blackwood Estate for three days, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that sounds less like water and more like the slow, grinding teeth of a machine that has forgotten how to stop, and I sit here in the dim, amber glow of the gaslight, writing to you from the study where the air is thick with the scent of old paper, damp wool, and the metallic tang...
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