The Distant Garden
The hammer struck the escapement pin with a precision that belied the shaking of Elias Thorne’s hands, the sound sharp and final in the drafty workshop, where the light of the afternoon sun slanted low through the grime-streaked glass, illuminating dust motes that hung suspended in the air like tiny, indifferent stars. He was forty years old, a master clockmaker of the Guild of Horology in the...
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