The Distant Machine
The gate was a thing of iron and silence, a vertical slab that did not breathe, did not creak, did not offer any comfort to the hand that pressed against its cold, unyielding surface, for I had learned in the long, grey years of my confinement that objects in this place possessed no kindness, only a brutal, indifferent permanence that mirrored the stone walls which rose around me like the...
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