The Distant Machine

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2026-08-23 08:36:35 -

The ink on my quill is drying faster than the blood in the veins of the men I treat, and I find myself writing to you, Your Grace, with a hand that trembles not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the silence you demand. It is the fourth day of October, 1342, and the air in the valley of Ashford smells of rot and wet wool. I write to ask for your permission to continue my work among the...

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