The Pale Bridge
The crack ran through the pale arch like a vein of lightning frozen in ice. Elias Thorne held his breath, his tweezers trembling against the spectral surface of the bridge. It hovered above his workbench, defying gravity and logic, a construct of light and memory that only he could see. He was fifty-two, a man whose hands had built hundreds of timepieces, but this artifact demanded a different...
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