The Distant Joke
The hammer in Elias Thorne’s hand weighed four pounds, a dead weight that dragged his wrist down toward the brass face of the Great Clock. He counted the seconds between his own heartbeats, a rhythmic thud that matched the slow, grinding tick of the mechanism above him. Thirty-four years old, he had spent the last decade chasing the ghost of precision, repairing timepieces in railway stations...
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