The Wistful Show
The fog is thicker today, isn’t it, Silas? It presses against the glass like a wet hand, trying to get in, and your hands are shaking again, trembling so violently that the tweezers slip from your grip and clatter against the workbench, a sharp, metallic scream that echoes in the small, breathing room. You are forty-two years old, a master clockmaker in the ancient, fog-choked estate of...
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