The Distant Clue
The first gear you replace weighs exactly four grams, a precision that feels like a lie in your sweating palm. You have counted the screws, the springs, the hairs of bristle on the clock’s face, and you have weighed the silence that has grown so thick in the shop it presses against your eardrums like deep water. Mara has been gone for three years, and the velvet glove she left on the workbench...
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