The Wistful Witness
The snow in Prague does not fall; it hovers, a suspended judgment that coats the cobbles of the Old Town Square in a silence so thick it feels like a physical weight against the skin. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and your hands, usually steady enough to assemble the finest escapements in the Kingdom of Bohemia, are trembling with a cold that has nothing to do with the winter air....
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