The Distant Whispers
The pneumatic tube hissed, a long, thin exhalation that tasted of copper and cold iron. You stood in the silence that followed, the brass cylinder clutched in your hands, feeling the residual heat seep into your palms. It was not a message. It was a weight. A physical thing, heavy with the implication of protocol, sitting in the subterranean vaults of the New London Pneumatic Exchange where the...
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