The Faded Portrait
The fog in Oakhaven did not merely settle; it permeated, a thick, grey suspension that seemed to coalesce around the old machinery, humming with a low-frequency static that made the teeth ache and the seconds stretch into uncomfortable, viscous lengths. Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old and bent by three decades of hunched work over escapements and balance wheels, stood in the doorway of the...
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