The Wistful Cipher
"The clock is broken again." Elias Thorne opened his eyes to the grey wash of the pre-dawn light. The dream had been precise, as it always was. A face of white porcelain, shattered not by impact but by time, the hands frozen at three. He sat up. The sheets were cold. The house was breathing, a low, rhythmic exhalation that he had learned to distinguish from the wind in the eaves. It was the...
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