The Distant Machine
The letter sat on the desk, a single sheet of heavy cream stock, the ink still wet and glistening in the dim, yellowed light of the archive room. Elias Thorne stood before it, his hand trembling so violently that the pen slipped twice, leaving jagged, dark scratches across the pristine paper, a physical manifestation of the six years he had spent hunched over the restricted "Vitalis" formula, a...
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