The Clockmaker's Lament (V-06)
The fog in London was not a weather condition; it was a physical presence, a damp, yellow shroud that clung to the skin and tasted of coal smoke. Mr. Thorne sat in his workshop, the air filled with the rhythmic, heartbeat-like ticking of a hundred clocks. He was a man of precision, a man who believed that every second had a place and every gear a purpose. Twenty years ago, Thorne had been a...
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