The Wistful Skyline
The invoice lay on the workbench, its edges curling slightly in the damp air of the workshop, a stark white rectangle against the dark, oil-stained wood where Elias Thorne sat hunched over the Grand Meridian. The document was a demand from the City Council, a final notice that the commission for the new town clock was due in three days, a sum of money that represented not just payment but the...
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