The Wistful Skyline
The first thing you must understand is the smell. It is not the smell of rain, though it is raining. It is the smell of wet iron and crushed thyme, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and refuses to leave. You are standing on the balcony of the mill, looking down at the valley where the town of Oakhaven sits like a bruise on the skin of the earth. You are a clockmaker. Or you...
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