The Wistful Show
The rain against the windowpane sounds like a thousand small fingers tapping on glass, asking to be let in. You sit in the center of the room, the floorboards cold through the soles of your worn boots, and you look at the thing in your hands. It is a clock. Not a grand grandfather clock, but a pocket watch, its brass casing darkened by years of sweat and dirt, its face cracked down the middle...
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