The Pale Mist
The brass gears weighed four ounces, a precise, cold burden that Elias Thorne held up to the light, checking for the faintest hairline fracture. He counted them out, one by one, into the velvet-lined tray, the sound of metal on metal sharp and brittle in the quiet of the workshop. It was a test of patience, a ritual of measurement, and for a moment, the world was nothing but the tick of the...
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