The Distant Threshold
"Did you hear the clock stop?" Elara Vane did not look up from the ledger, her quill scratching a continuous, rhythmic line against the damp paper, the sound a steady tick that matched the silence of the archive room where no other clock existed. The year was 1912, and the air in the municipal building hung thick with the scent of decaying cellulose and the metallic tang of the ink she used to...
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