The Wistful Saga
The brass gear sits in your palm, cold and heavy, its teeth worn to a dull, soft white, like bone polished by years of friction. You turn it over, watching the light catch the microscopic scratches, the tiny imperfections that no amount of oil can hide, and you think of the town hall clock, that great, wooden-behemoth thing that has kept time for the town of Oakhaven for a century, and how it...
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