The Distant Joke
The clock tower cracked. It split down the middle, a jagged scar of brick and stone against the grey sky. You watched it fall. Not all at once. Piece by piece. The hands stopped. The gears ground. Dust poured out like black water. You stood in the courtyard of the Whitmore Mill. Your boots were wet. The fog was thick. It tasted of iron and old rain. You were here to fix it. Or so you thought....
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