The Pale Verdict
The brass escapement wheel sits between your thumb and forefinger, cold and slick with oil, a tiny sun suspended in the dark of the workshop. You hold it up to the gaslight, turning it a fraction of a degree, listening for the tick that should come from the center of the room but does not. The silence is heavy, pressed against your eardrums by the smell of whale oil and stale sawdust that has...
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