The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-19 14:36:16 -

The door of my workshop was not a barrier; it was a membrane. I felt it breathe against my chest, the wood grain slick with the damp that had seeped in from the October fog. I was a restorer of clocks, a man who traded in seconds and the heavy, ticking weight of time. For thirty years, I had sat in this small, cluttered room in the town of Millhaven, listening to the heartbeat of the community....

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