The Distant Summer
The calibrator in your left hand is warm, its brass casing radiating a heat that feels less like metal and more like a living thing pressed against your palm. You are standing in the center of the library at Harrow House, the air thick with the scent of damp plaster and old varnish, and you are waiting for the needle to stop trembling. The building groans around you, a low, sub-bass thrum that...
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