The Distant Machine
14 November, 1893. The cold in the Ministry is not merely a temperature; it is a policy. It seeps through the wool of my coat and settles in the joints, a dampness that no amount of rubbing can dislodge. I am Elias Thorne, spectral auditor, third class, and I am here to clear my name before the winter audit seals my file in the basement archives. My left eye, a prosthetic of polished obsidian,...
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