The Faded Attic
The attic above Arthur Pendelton's watchmaker shop in Bloomsbury smelled of dust and forgotten things. It was a space his father had used for storage—boxes of broken clocks, spools of tarnished wire, mannequins draped in moth-eaten velvet from decades of window displays. But Arthur had claimed it as his own sanctuary after his father's death, a place where the ticking of a hundred timepieces...
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