The Wistful Silence
The brass clock on the mantelpiece ticks with a rhythm so relentless and precise that it feels less like a measurement of time and more like the steady, unyielding pulse of a heart that refuses to stop beating even when the body has long since given up, and you sit there in the dim, dusty light of the drawing room, watching the pendulum swing left and right, left and right, its golden face...
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