The Distant Threshold
You are the best clockmaker in the city. They say it. You know it. Your hands are steady. Your eyes are sharp. You sit in the glass shop on Baker Street. The dust motes dance. They do not care about time. You do. The door chimes. A man enters. He is old. His coat is brown. It smells of wet wool and fear. He sets a pocket watch on the counter. It is gold. It is heavy. "Fix it," he says. His...
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