The Wistful Throne
The brass gear sat on my workbench, a cold disc of yellowed metal that seemed to pull the light from the room into its grooves. It was the central drive of the Great Chime of St. Jude’s, a mechanism so old and so intricately bound to the town’s collective memory that the Mayor had forbidden me from speaking of its repairs to anyone but the Council. I was forty years old, and my hands, which had...
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