The Distant Machine
14th of November. The fog has not lifted from the spires of the Palace in three days, a thick, grey wool that presses against the workshop windows like a living thing. I am writing this by the light of a single tallow candle, my hand trembling so violently that the ink bleeds into the paper in dark, irregular blooms. My lungs have been burning since dawn, a persistent, hollow ache that makes...
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