The Distant Machine
The brass key was cold in my palm, its teeth worn smooth by twenty years of turning. I held it up against the light filtering through the high, narrow windows of the Gatehouse, watching the dust motes swirl in the shafts of grey afternoon sun. The stone walls of the corridor vibrated, a low, rhythmic thrum that matched the irregular, arrhythmic thumping in my own chest. I am Elias Thorne,...
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