The Faded Guest
The bell above the door does not ring when you enter, which is the first thing you notice, the second being that the air inside the apothecary tastes of dried lavender and old paper, a scent that coats the back of your throat with a dryness that feels less like thirst and more like forgetting. You are a clockmaker, a man who has spent forty years coiling springs and setting pendulums with the...
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