The Wistful Incense
The brass gear housing was warm, slick with a grease that smelled of copper and old pennies, and my thumb was already digging into the seam where the power coupling met the frame, trying to feel for the fracture I had been promised. I had spent the last three nights mapping the vibrations of the Aetheric Loom, a machine that hummed with a low, sickly frequency that made my molars ache and...
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