The Wistful Ashes
The brass pendulum is cold in your hands, the metal so smooth it feels like a river stone worn by centuries of water, though you know it has only been in your pocket for three days. You hold it up to the grey light filtering through the window of the Ministry of Time, watching the dust motes dance in the beam, a chaotic counterpoint to the rigid, ticking order of the room around you. You are...
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