The Distant Crown
The kettle whistled. It was a shrill, thin sound. Like a mouse dying in the wall. I ignored it. My hands were busy. They were slick with oil. The gear was small. Smaller than a coin. It was brass. It was old. It was mine. Or it was not. That was the question. That was the whole thing. I am a maker. I fix things. I take the broken and I make it whole. Or I pretend to. The shop is cold. The...
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