The Distant Machine
The letter lay on the desk, the ink still faintly wet, smelling of iron and rain. It was a report, or rather, a confession, written in a hand that had once been steady enough to hold a rifle, but now trembled with a palsy that had nothing to do with age. The author was Colonel Elias Thorne, a man whose name had been scrubbed from the service records a decade prior, replaced by a file marked...
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