The Pale Mist
The clock on the wall ticks. It is a heavy sound. A woodpecker in a coffin. You are sitting in the workshop. The smell of varnish is thick. It coats your tongue. You taste copper. You taste rust. You are Elias Thorne. You are a clockmaker. Your hands are still. They have not moved in three days. The shop is silent. The silence is loud. You look at the door. It is closed. The glass is fogged....
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