The Distant Machine
The bone gear sits in my palm, cold as a river stone. It is small, no larger than a thimble, yet it weighs down the table with a gravity that seems to pull the light from the room. I hold it while I write to you, Clara, my hand trembling not from the cold of the cellar but from the sheer, crushing weight of what I have done. The loom is still running. I can hear it through the floorboards, a...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews