The Distant Temple
Could a bridge truly hum if it were dead? I am Walter Roudebush, and I have forty-seven of NineElm Crossing left in my ledger before the audit closes, a number that feels heavier than the steel I inspect. I am forty-two years old, a drone shepherd on the high plains of Ockham, a town carved into the loess cliffs of Cornwall where the tin mines are long dry and the sea is the only thing that...
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