The Golden Mirror
The fog in Oakhaven does not merely obscure; it edits. It stretches the seconds of the workday until they feel like hours of grinding, then compresses the rest into a blink, a distortion that the town’s elders call the Breath of the Iron Saint. You are Elias Thorne, forty years old, a clockmaker whose hands are mapped with scars from the escapements of a life spent in precise, mechanical...
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