The Golden Circuit
The candle sputters. The wax pools, a white lake freezing on the wood. You are still here. You are always here, in the dark, with the smell of tallow and old blood in your nose. You were a maker of things. Not gold. Not jewels. But mechanisms. Gears that turned without sound. Cogs that meshed with the grace of a lover’s whisper. Your name was Thomas. You lived in the stone belly of the keep,...
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