The Wistful Cipher
The brass gear in my hand was cold, colder than the workshop air should allow, and it hummed with a vibration that traveled up my wrist and settled in the bone. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man who has spent three decades listening to the tick of seconds rather than the roar of the world, and I held that gear against the light to find the flaw. The Great House in Harrowgate was not...
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