The Distant Metropolis
The brass escapement wheel lay cold and greasy in Elias Thorne’s palm, its teeth sharp as the needles of a watchmaker’s loupe, reflecting the dim light of the workshop in fractured, jagged shards. He turned it over, feeling the smooth, worn convexity of the surface against his skin, a texture that had once signaled precision but now felt only like a foreign object, heavy and inert. For three...
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