The Distant Journey
The brass gears of the Millward & Sons clock tower ground against one another with a sound like dry bones shifting in a grave, a rhythm that had dictated the pulse of our small, soot-stained city for forty years. I stood at the base of the structure, my hands trembling not from the cold that bit through my wool coat, but from the weight of the iron key in my pocket. It was a small, unremarkable...
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