The Distant Ghost
The frost bit into my knuckles as I climbed the spiral stairs of St. Jude’s, the iron rungs slick with the damp of a season that had no name, only weight. I was Elias Thorne, master clockmaker, and I carried the weight of the Guild’s charter in my chest like a stone. My pension, twenty years of service distilled into a single, cold check, hung on the successful restoration of the Great Bell by...
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