The Pale Garden
The hum of the server farm was a physical weight, a low-frequency thrum that I felt not with my ears but in the marrow of my teeth, a vibration that had become the baseline of my existence for the last three years. I sat in the center of the sub-basement, a room that smelled of ozone and stale coffee, surrounded by the blinking eyes of thousands of hard drives. My name is Arthur Penhaligon, and...
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