The Clockmaker's Confession
Act I The bell above Silas Harrington's workshop door chimed at half past three, though no customer stood on the fog-choked street of Whitechapel. The chime was unnecessary—the door had been locked, bolted, and barred that morning—but habit persisted in a man who had spent twenty years listening for the footsteps of people who valued precision. Silas looked up from his workbench. On it rested a...
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