The Golden Master
The air in the basement of the Whitmore & Sons Foundry was thick with the taste of iron and damp earth. I sat at the workbench, the only light source a single bulb hanging from a wire that swayed gently in the draft rising from the floor grates. In front of me lay the object that had consumed the last three years of my life: a mechanical bird, crafted from brass, silver, and a heart of...
0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews