The Wistful Ashes
The shatter does not begin with a sound but with a crack in the air, a jagged fissure of white light that splits the grey afternoon and pulls the seconds from your body like thread from a unraveling hem. You are standing in the break room of the Bureau of Temporal Integrity, the coffee in your hand growing cold as the clock tower, a phantom structure of rusted iron and broken glass, rises from...
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