The Wistful Dinner
The mainspring had snapped. Elias stared at the tangle of steel on his workbench, the metal coiled tight like a dead insect, the sound of its release still ringing in his ears as a high, thin whine that had not yet faded. He sat in the silence of the workshop, the air thick with the smell of oil and old wood, his hands resting on the edge of the table. They were shaking. The tremor had started...
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