The Distant Machine
The letter is in my hand. My hand is shaking. Not from cold. From the weight of it. The paper is thin. It cuts into the palm. Like a blade. We are in the house. The big house. The one with the damp walls and the rotting floorboards. The winter is here. It presses against the glass. Outside, the snow falls. Silent. White. It covers everything. It covers the sins. It covers the truth. I am a man...
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