The Distant Metropolis
The letter lay on the desk, the ink still wet and glistening under the single bare bulb, a stark black smudge against the yellowed paper that Arthur Penhaligon had signed three days prior and now refused to read. It was a form, of course, a standard notification from the Oakhaven Mill Company regarding personnel restructuring, the kind of bureaucratic instrument that reduced a man’s thirty-four...
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