The Golden Song
The box lay open on my bench, its brass casing tarnished by three generations of sweat and fear. I held the tweezers with a hand that would not stop shaking. "You do not fix the song, Elias. You feed it." Silas’s voice echoed from the doorway, where he stood wrapped in a coat that smelled of wet wool and old wood. I did not look up. My eyes were fixed on the stripped gear, the tiny tooth...
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