The Golden Master
The water had not just risen; it had invaded, a cold, silty tide that swallowed the lower shelves and lapped against the oak legs of my bench. I stood in the ankle-deep sludge, the sump pump sputtering uselessly in the corner, and watched the Golden Master submerge. It was a clock of my own design, a tourbillon cage suspended in brass, the escapement a jewel of ruby and steel that had consumed...
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