The Distant Machine
The glass tumbler sits in your left hand, the water inside perfectly still, a surface that mirrors the grey light of the office window, and you are holding it with a precision that feels borrowed, as if the dexterity belongs to a stranger who has not yet noticed the tremor beginning in the tendon of your wrist. It is October 12, 1924, and the air in the Grand Palace archives smells of damp wool...
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