The Wistful Voyage
The brass pocket watch lay on the kitchen table, its face clouded with the grime of decades, ticking with a rhythm that seemed less like time and more like a slow, arrhythmic heartbeat. It was a heavy thing, solid and cold, a relic of a world that had no place in the sterile, air-conditioned present of Oakhaven. Elias Thorne, twelve years old and sharp-eyed, sat across from it, his fingers...
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