The Wistful Saga
The brass weight sat in my palm, cold and dense, its surface worn smooth by decades of handling. I held it up to the window light, watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of gray November air, before setting it back onto the workbench beside the tweezers, the loupe, and the half-eaten sandwich. It was a simple thing, a counterweight for a pendulum, but it felt heavier than it should have, as...
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