The Distant Machine
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, its wax seal broken not by force but by the sheer, brittle weight of the air in the scriptorium, a parchment that smelled of dried lavender and the iron tang of old blood. Aldous held it against his chest, the way one holds a fractured rib, feeling the jagged edges of the truth press into his skin, and he knew then that the silence of the Abbey of St. Jude was...
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