The Wistful Cipher
The cold did not enter the workshop through the cracks in the window frame, nor did it seep up from the damp cobblestones of Oakhaven’s industrial quarter; it radiated from the heart of the Grand Meridian Clock itself, a chill so profound it seemed to suck the warmth from the very air. You, Arthur Vane, master clockmaker, stood before the open chest of the mechanism, your breath pluming in...
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