The Distant Machine
The ink had barely dried on the final sentence of the letter when the room began to dissolve, not into darkness, but into a profound and terrible clarity. Elias Vane sat at his mahogany desk, the wood grain swirling like oil on water, and watched the walls of his study at the edge of the Vermont woods peel away to reveal a landscape that defied the geometry of the waking world. It was a place...
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