The Clock of Eternal Silence
The fog of 1888 London did not merely cling to the cobblestones; it breathed, a sulfurous beast that swallowed the gaslights and the souls of men. Arthur Penhaligon lived in the marrow of this beast, in a workshop no larger than a coffin, where the air was thick with the scent of whale oil and oxidized brass. Arthur was a man of precision. His world was governed by the rhythmic heartbeat of a...
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