The Faded Chronicle
The rain had been falling for three days, a thin, persistent mist that turned the cobblestones of the old quarter into slick mirrors reflecting the amber glow of the streetlamps. Arthur Penhaligon stood in the doorway of his workshop, watching the water pool in the gutters, his hands resting on the worn wooden frame. Inside, the air smelled of sawdust, turpentine, and the sharp, metallic tang...
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