The Distant Machine
The ink is still wet on the final line when I hear the carriage wheels grind against the gravel, a sound that feels less like arrival and more like an intrusion. My hands are shaking, not from the cold that seeps through the walls of my study, but from the sheer weight of what I have just committed to paper. I am a man of ledgers, of precise calculations, of the steady rhythm of the loom in the...
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