The Distant Summer
The chime is wrong. You hear it before you see it, a stuttering, arrhythmic thud that hits the eardrum like a hammer on wet wood. Salvador Loera stands in the doorway of the workshop, his back to the morning light that filters through the grime of the windows, watching the hands of the town hall clock jerk forward, pause, and lurch again. It is not a malfunction. It is a choice. He knows this...
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