The Golden Echoes
The brass pocket watch ticked backward. It was a small, mechanical wrongness that Elias Thorne felt in the marrow of his wrist before he heard it in the air. Three years of service in the Somme had hardened his nerves, but the rhythm of that ticking, a steady *tick-tick* against the flow of seconds, made his fingers itch. He sat in the waiting room of the War Office, the air thick with the...
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