The Distant Metropolis
The notice from the City Council lay on my workbench, its edges curling slightly in the damp air of the shop. It was a standard form, printed in a dry, utilitarian ink that smelled faintly of iron and stale paper, but the words inside carried the weight of a verdict. I was to repair the Grand Meridian Clock within thirty days, or my pension, the sum of my forty years of service, would be...
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