The Distant Machine
The ink was frozen before I could even dip the quill, a solid black plug in the well that cracked under the nib’s pressure. I scraped it away with a knife, the sound sharp and final in the empty room, and looked up at the rafters where the wood groaned in a rhythm that had no wind to drive it. It is the fourth of March, 1420, and the cold has moved into the walls of the orphanage, settling into...
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