The Distant Machine
"You are making a mistake, Assunta, a fatal one." I looked up from the escapement wheel, my tweezers hovering over the pivot stone, and watched Enzo set his leather satchel on the workbench. The smell of the workshop hit me before I fully registered his face: the sharp, metallic tang of brass filings mixed with the stale, yeasty odor of the bread I had forgotten to eat for three days. My hands,...
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