The Distant Machine
The wind here does not howl; it ticks. It is a dry, mechanical sound, like a clock winding down in an empty house. I am writing this by the light of the machine, which burns with a pale, sickly violet. My hands are shaking, not from the cold, though the observatory is freezing, but from the sheer weight of what I am about to say. Julian, I am failing you. I have failed you for twenty years, and...
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