The Wistful Letter
The hydraulic press groans at three in the morning, a low, resonant frequency that vibrates in my molars and makes the iron filings on the floor dance in spirals that mimic the slant of my own handwriting. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two, and I am writing this log entry on November 14, 1893, because I need to prove the machine is safe if I am to secure the promotion to Foreman that I have bled...
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