The Distant Threshold
The fog in Oakhaven did not roll in so much as it settled, a heavy, grey wool that suffocated the cobblestones and swallowed the gaslights whole. You stood before the Grand Meridian Clock, your hands trembling so violently that the screwdriver slipped from your grip and clattered against the workbench, a sound like a bone breaking in the silence. The clock face glowed with a faint, impossible...
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