The Distant Machine
The air in the Meridian Steamworks does not smell of coal, as one might expect from such a place of industry, but of copper pennies and wet wool, a scent that clings to the back of the throat and refuses to be washed away. I am writing to you from the office on the fourth floor, where the windows are fogged with the exhalations of a hundred men who have forgotten how to breathe quietly, and I...
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