The Price of Restoration
(V-01: Victorian Melancholy) The fog of London in 1884 did not just cling to the cobblestones; it seeped into the marrow of one's bones, a grey shroud for a dying century. I sat in the dim light of my workshop, the smell of ozone and old oil thick in the air. Before me lay a shattered porcelain doll, its face a map of jagged cracks, its eyes vacant. I held the Chronos-Lens to my eye. The world...
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