The Distant Machine
The ink on the page is still wet, a dark mirror to the oil-slicked sky outside the window, and I am writing this by the light of a single tallow candle that hisses and pops like a dying man, its flame trembling against the draft that seeps through the warped panes of the High Court chamber, a room that smells of stale sweat, burnt coffee, and the metallic tang of fear that permeates the air...
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