The Wistful Show
The great clock in the town hall of Blackwood did not tick; it held its breath, a vast, soot-stained lung suspended in the rafters, waiting for the man who had built it to make a mistake. Elias Thorne stood below its face, his hands trembling not from cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had fallen over the assembly. For three years, he had fed his own savings into the...
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