The Wistful Asylum
I counted the teeth on the main gear. One hundred and twelve. I counted them again. One hundred and twelve. The metal was cold under my thumb, cold as the river stone I kept in my pocket for luck. I needed the sale. I needed the money before the debt collectors came. The Aether Engine sat on the workbench, a heart of brass and iron, humming a low chord that vibrated in my molars. It was a...
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