The Faded Alibi
The escapement pin slipped. Elias Thorne caught it between his thumb and forefinger, a sliver of steel no wider than a grain of rice. His hands were steady then. They were always steady when the work was small enough to hide the tremor that lived in his wrists. He placed the pin into the brass housing of the chronometer, a piece of machinery so precise that a human hair across the gears would...
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