The Distant Machine
"Keep your eyes on the snow, Hina Mori, or you’ll drop the boy and the letter both." I am writing this by the light of a tallow stub that has burned down to a black sliver, the flame trembling as the wind shakes the timber of the ruined watchtower. It is the third day of the march north, into the frozen wilds where the oak savanna thins to bare, skeletal trunks scattered like parkland debris....
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