The Wistful Silence
The shadow stood on the edge of the clock tower’s parapet, its silhouette cut sharp against the gray sky. Elias Thorne watched it from the workshop floor, his hands frozen over a disassembled escapement. The figure wore his own coat, moved with his own stiff gait, and watched him with a contempt that felt physical, like a cold draft in a sealed room. Elias was forty, a man of precise...
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