The Pale Mist
Chapter One The clockmaker’s hands are the only things that matter, and Juergen Hofmann knew this with the bone-deep certainty of a man who had spent forty-five years listening to springs unwind. He woke at the edge of the white mist, that familiar, cold vapor that always swallowed his fingers in the dream, leaving him gasping in the narrow bed of the county assessor’s annex. The room smelled...
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