The Distant Journey
The brass astrolabe lies open upon the velvet cushion, its intricate network of rings tarnished by the damp air of the tower room, and you watch the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light that pierces the heavy curtains, knowing with a certainty that settles in your bones like cold water that the mechanism is broken not by rust but by the simple, unyielding fact of time. You are twelve...
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