The Wistful Saga
The clock in the center of the hall did not tick. It only sat there, a great bronze eye with a glass pupil, staring down at the assembly with a patience that felt less like mechanical precision and more like geological indifference. Margaret sat at the far end of the long oak table, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her knuckles white against the dark wool of her sleeves. The air in the room...
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