The Distant Machine
The letter from the parish clerk arrived with the morning post, its envelope stained with the grey dust of the alpine road, and Elias Thorne read it twice before setting it down on the workbench, the brass gears of the Aetheric Regulator ticking softly beneath the silence. He was forty years old, a clockmaker by trade and by stubborn inclination, and he had spent the last three years in this...
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