The Golden Farce
The clock in the tower of St. Jude’s does not tick. It holds its breath. You know this because you have stood in the square below for three days, watching the hands frozen at four o’clock. The town is silent. Not the silence of sleep, but the silence of a held note. You are a man of few words and many coins. Your pockets are heavy. Your spine is light. You have come here to fix it. That is the...
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