The Golden Echoes
The brass gear did not rust, nor did it tarnish, a fact that sat in the marrow of my being like a stone swallowed whole, for I was the gear, and the gear was I, and the distinction between the man named Elias Thorne and the mechanism that drove the great loom of the city had dissolved long before the first fog of that November evening rolled into the district of Millhaven. We were all of us...
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