The Faded Chronicle
The rain in Harrowgate does not wash things clean; it only makes the grime slicker. You stand before the Great Hall clock, the pendulum still, its brass face tarnished by a century of dust and neglect. Your hands tremble, a palsy that has grown sharper in the cold, but you do not let them shake as you lift the screwdriver. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a master clockmaker who has spent the...
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