The Distant Crown
The clock in the town square does not stop, but it slows, a heavy, brass-bearded beast that seems to drag its feet through the morning fog. You stand before it, your hands tucked into the pockets of a coat that has seen better decades, and you watch the hands crawl. You are a man of numbers, of ledgers and margins, of the quiet, unglamorous art of making things last. Your shop, *Whitmore &...
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