The Distant Wound
The rain on the roof of the train station did not fall so much as it accumulated, a grey, heavy silence that pressed against the glass. Elias Thorne stood by the window, his reflection hovering in the pane, a ghostly overlay of his own face. He was a man built for precision, a clockmaker by trade, though in the industrial sprawl of New Cartham, he had become something else: a curator of time....
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