The Wistful Witness
The train to Oakhaven was a rusted thing, groaning under the weight of the valley’s fog. Elias Thorne sat by the window, his left hand resting on his knee, trembling. It was a fine, high-pitched vibration, like a mainspring about to snap. He was forty-five, a clockmaker by trade, though he had not touched a gear in three years. He wanted to sell the shop. He wanted to drive south to the coast,...
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