The Wistful Petal
The fog in Oakhaven does not drift; it pools, thick as spilled cream, clinging to the cobblestones and the brass fixtures of your workshop. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a master horologist, and your hands are currently trembling as you hold the pocket watch that contains the soul of your friend, Julian. The time in this city is visible, a viscous ribbon of amber light that can be cut with a...
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