The Distant Machine
March 12 The pen tip catches in the vellum, a tiny, jagged tear in the paper that feels like a splinter under my fingernail. I am forty-two years old, and my hands are trembling with a rhythm that has nothing to do with the cold. I want to finish the translation of the parish records before the archive closes for renovation, a task that should take an afternoon but is taking my life, hour by...
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