The Distant Machine
12 October, 1904. The steam in the pipes has begun to speak, and I am writing this by the light of a tallow candle because the gas lamps in the office flicker with a sickly, arrhythmic pulse that makes my eyes water. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a clerk for the Northern Railway, and I need this promotion to Station Master before the winter freeze sets in and locks the ledger shut....
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