The Distant Promise
The rain did not fall; it was extracted from the sky, a viscous, grey sludge that coated the iron lungs of the machine and seeped into the joints of my exoskeleton. I was seven years old, and I was already dying. The doctor had said the fever would take me by morning, a simple enough truth to hold in a small hand, but the machine did not care for simple truths. It cared for torque, for...
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