The Distant Crown
The clock was broken. Or so I thought. It sat on the shelf in the war room, a brass beast with a cracked face. It did not tick. It did not chime. It just stood there, dead. I loved it. I loved the weight of it in my hands. I loved the way the dust settled in the grooves of its hands. It was mine. Not the factory’s. Not the boss’s. Mine. We were in the basement. The air smelled of oil and fear....
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