The Distant Machine
The glass did not shatter. It sighed. A low, tectonic groan that traveled up the brass mountings, through the iron frame, and into the marrow of my bones. I was standing before the great lens of the Royal Observatory, the heart of the instrument we had spent three years polishing, when the first hairline fracture appeared. It was not a crack of impact, nor the spiderweb of thermal stress that...
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