The Wistful Skyline
The fog does not behave like weather; it behaves like a debt collector, pressing its cold, gray face against the glass of your shop window while you struggle to hold the mainspring tension with tweezers that feel too heavy for your fingers. You are forty years old, Elias, though the ache in your knuckles and the tremor in your left hand suggest a man of sixty, and the shop is quiet except for...
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