The Golden Visit
You hold the brass plaque in your palm, feeling the warmth of it seep into your calloused skin, a small, heavy weight that feels less like metal and more like a solidified piece of time, and you are standing in the back room of your workshop, the air thick with the scent of beeswax, old varnish, and the faint, metallic tang of the dust that settles on everything in this city, a city that hums...
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