The Golden Master
The rain has been falling for three days, a steady, grey curtain that turns the cobblestones of the old foundry district into a mirror of the bruised sky, and you stand in the center of the workshop, holding the brass astrolabe in your hands as if it were a live bird, feeling its cold weight settle into the hollow of your palms, a weight that is not just metal but memory, a dense, humming thing...
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