The Golden Master
The workshop smelled of whale oil and cold iron. Elias Vane stood before the workbench, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the final escapement of the Golden Master. It was 1912, and the city outside was a blur of fog and coal smoke, but here, in the dim light of the single gas lamp, the clock face held a different truth. The glass did not reflect the workshop. It reflected Elias. Not...
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