The Wistful Ashes
The paper lay flat on the metal desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry, heated air of the office. It was a standard Form 7-B, *Application for Temporal Calibration Authorization*, printed in the stark, unyielding black ink of the Bureau of Chronometric Standards. Elias Thorne, forty-five years old and a master clockmaker of thirty-two, stared at the signature line. His finger, stained with...
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