The Golden Circuit
The rain did not fall; it descended, a silver curtain drawn tightly against the windows of the old mill, blurring the world into a watercolor of grey and green. Inside, the air smelled of wet wool and the faint, metallic tang of ozone. Elias Thorne sat at his workbench, his hands stained with the black residue of the circuit board he was repairing. It was a small device, a toy for a child, yet...
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