The Faded Chronicle
The brass gear sat in your palm, cold and perfect, a small sun of teeth and metal. You turned it over, watching the light from the single bare bulb catch the spiral of the escapement, while the rest of the workshop stood in the grey, pre-dawn dark. The smell of oil and old wood hung heavy in the air, a scent that had soaked into your skin over forty years of bending over benches. You were Elias...
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