The Wistful Witness
The gilded workshop of the Meridian Institute smelled of ozone and old dust, a scent that seemed to cling to the back of my throat as I stood before the Great Chronometer, my hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the commission I had just accepted. The Director, a man named Silas whose face held the taut, unblemished smoothness of a thirty-year-old despite his...
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