The Distant Garden
Harald Odden was thirty-two years old, a master clockmaker, and he owed a debt of honor to a dead man. The light in the workshop was the color of old varnish, slanting low through the high windows as the harvest weather held its breath outside, watched hourly by the gulls circling the loess cliffs. He held the tuning fork against the Great Bell’s bronze casing, the metal humming a frequency...
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