The Distant Machine
The ink was wet. It bled into the heavy, cream-colored paper like a bruise forming under skin. Margaret held the pen. Her hand did not shake. This was the first thing she noticed. She had expected to tremble. She had expected the cold sweat that usually preceded the summons to the Hall. Instead, there was only a dry, humming stillness. The room smelled of old dust and beeswax. The candlelight...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews