The Wistful Mirror
The first thing you must learn is the weight of the hour, not its ticking. Elara Vane stood in the workshop, counting the seconds between the chime of the clock and the strike of the mallet on the brass frame, a rhythm that had governed her life for three years since Arthur died. The air in the townhouse was thick with the smell of ozone and old oil, a scent that clung to her clothes like a...
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