The Pale Dance
The invoice from the Town Council sat on Elias’s workbench, the ink still wet, demanding a repair fee of forty pounds for the chime mechanism that had stopped three weeks prior. Elias signed it without looking up, his left hand steady, his right hand trembling slightly as he wiped the grease from his fingers. He was thirty years old, and the shop was empty. The silence in Oakhaven was not a...
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