The Distant Journey
The brass gear slipped from my tweezers and rolled across the mahogany desk, coming to rest against the edge of the ledger I had been keeping for three years. I did not pick it up. I watched it sit there, a tiny, cold wheel of precision engineering, and I thought of Julian’s hand, which had once gripped my shoulder with the same desperate finality. "Elias, you have to understand," he had said,...
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