The Shadow Cat
I have always been bad at remembering faces. It is a curse, really—the kind of neurological misfire that makes the world a series of blurred edges and half-recognized voices. But I can remember clocks. Every clock in my shop, every tick and tock and whisper of gears turning, is as clear to me as my own name. Which is fortunate, because my own name is the one thing I have been trying to forget....
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