The Distant Journey
The brass gear is cold against your palm, its teeth worn smooth by decades of friction, and you hold it up to the light where the dust motes dance in a slow, indifferent spiral. You are Elias Thorne, and your hands are failing. The palsy that has crept into your knuckles for the last two winters now grips your fingers like a vice, making the delicate work of the Grand Meridian a daily act of...
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