The Faded Photograph
The inspection is at dawn, Elias. You stand in the center of the workshop, the air thick with the smell of whale oil and cold brass, your hands trembling so violently that the tweezers slip from your fingers and clatter against the workbench. The sound is a gunshot in the silence, a sharp crack that echoes off the stone walls of the medieval city’s oldest quarter, where the cobblestones outside...
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