The Distant Metropolis
The cold does not arrive all at once, as snow does, settling gently on the eaves of your workshop in the high valley; it creeps in through the knuckles of your right hand, a slow, rhythmic tightening that feels less like pain and more like a mechanical winding, precise and indifferent to your will. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a master clockmaker whose reputation rests on the...
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