The Wistful Asylum
Three hundred and twelve teeth. That is the count of the escapement wheel in the Grand Meridian Clock, a number that has consumed the last four weeks of your life, Elias Thorne. You sit in the workshop, the lamplight cutting a sharp, yellow wedge through the dust motes dancing in the air, and you count them again. One, two, three. The brass is warm under your tweezers, a warmth that seems to...
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