The Wistful Mountain
The watch is heavy. You feel its weight against your wrist before you even look at it. It is a thick, brass instrument, industrial in its bulk, the kind of thing that belonged to a factory floor in 1974. The glass is cracked. A spiderweb fracture runs from the twelve to the six. You bought it from a flea market in Boston, a place of damp cardboard and forgotten winters. You told yourself it was...
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