The Golden Farce
The brass gear sat in Elias’s palm, cold and heavy as a stone pulled from a riverbed. He held it up to the slanting afternoon light, watching the dust motes dance in the beam that cut through his workshop. It was a perfect mechanism, a masterwork of interlocking teeth and polished pivots, the kind of thing that had taken him three years to design. He wrapped it in velvet, tucked it into his...
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