The Pale Meridian
You cannot keep the past in a jar, Mr. Thorne, no matter how tight the lid is screwed on. The Archivist, a man named Silas whose fingers were perpetually stained with the dust of old paper, spoke softly, his voice barely rising above the rhythmic, backward ticking of the pocket watch Elias Thorne held in his trembling hand. The watch was a heavy brass thing, its glass face cracked down the...
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