The Wistful Mountain
The Great Pendulum did not tick so much as it breathed, a slow, metallic exhalation that filled the high-ceilinged workshop with the scent of oil and old brass, while Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and hunched over his workbench, watched the weight swing back and forth with the grim persistence of a heartbeat in a dying chest. He had been alone in the manor for three days, the heavy oak...
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