The Distant Metropolis
"You’re certain about the foundation?" The question hung in the dusty air of the workshop, a thin thread of sound that seemed to vibrate against the silence of the stopped clocks. Elias Thorne did not look up from the pendulum he held, his fingers stained with the black grease of old springs and the white powder of dried chalk. He was forty-five, a man whose face had been carved by the same...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews