The Golden Circuit
My hands are currently wrapped around the mainspring of the Grand Regulator, a coil of steel so tight it feels less like metal and more like a frozen scream. The room smells of oil and old dust, and the silence is so heavy it presses against my eardrums, a physical weight that makes it hard to breathe. I am writing this to you, Clara, from the attic of the Ashworth estate, because I cannot...
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