The Distant Machine
The letter lay on the desk, the ink still wet and glistening under the tallow light, a stark white rectangle against the dark oak. Thomas Hale pressed his thumb into the center of the page, the skin soft and trembling, as if the paper might burn him. He had written it three times, crossing out the word "cowardice" each time, replacing it with "duty," though the lie sat heavy in his chest like a...
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