The Distant Summer
"Stop it," Silas said, his voice thin as the light filtering through the workshop’s high, dust-caked windows. "You are not fixing the time, Elias. You are paying for it." Elias did not look up from the escapement he was filing. The file bit into the brass with a rhythmic, grinding whisper, a sound that had become the only honest music in his life for the last decade. Outside, the wind pressed...
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