The Distant Machine
Elias Thorne scrubbed the grime from the windowpane with a rag that had long since lost its color, the fabric stiff with dried mud and old grease. Outside, the wind stripped the last leaves from the pines, sending them skittering across the gravel of the outpost yard like dry paper. He wiped a streak from the glass, checking the seal, knowing that if the frame failed, the cold would get in...
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