The Wistful Saga
The rain against the windowpane of the workshop was a steady, rhythmic tapping that sounded less like weather and more like a metronome set to a slow, agonizing tempo. Elias Thorne sat hunched over the workbench, his magnifying loupe pressed tight against his eye, his tweezers hovering over the delicate escapement of the orrery. His hands, once steady enough to set a hairspring without...
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