The Wistful Silence
The clock on the mantel is not merely a timekeeper. It is a mouth. It swallows the seconds and excretes them as silence. You are the watchmaker. Or you were. For thirty years, your hands have moved with the precision of a surgeon, your eyes narrowed against the dust of the gears, the hairs of the mainsprings. You know the weight of a ruby bearing. You know the tension of a balance wheel. You...
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