The Distant Machine
The clockmaker's workshop sat at the end of a lane that had long forgotten the sea. Edward Ashworth-Cross had walked it three thousand, four hundred and twelve times—each number precise, measured by the click of his own boots on the cobbles, each step a tiny rebellion against the silence that waited behind his door. He was a man who understood gears. People, he had learned, were irreparably...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 4 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen