The Shards of a Broken Hourglass
Memory is not a line; it is a collection of shards, jagged and iridescent, cutting into the consciousness whenever the wind shifts. For Arthur Thorne, the shards were triggered by the scent of burnt coffee and the rhythmic, metallic ticking of a grandfather clock. These anchors were all that remained of a life that had once moved in one direction, before the world decided to fold in on itself....
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