The Faded Frequency
The fog in Oakhaven does not merely obscure; it presses against the glass with a damp, persistent weight, as if the town itself is trying to hold its breath, and in the suffocating silence of my workshop, I sit with the broken chime mechanism before me, my fingers trembling not from the cold, but from the terrible knowledge that I am the only one who understands why the gears have seized. I...
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