The Golden Echoes
The rain lashed against the stained glass of the clock tower’s belfry, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones, and he stood there, suspended in the dark between the great brass gears, his fingers wrapped tightly around the lever that controlled the chime, a lever that felt less like metal and more like the cold, hard spine of the...
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