The Faded Frequency
Act I Bridget Hegarty, thirty-two, had bought the taxi medallion at the top of the market, a debt that bled into the linoleum of her workshop where the smell of old oil sat thick as a fog. I am a master clockmaker in a town that has forgotten how to keep time, working on the Great Clock for the Guild with a deadline that looms like a storm front over the terraced, bankrupt hills of Donegal. The...
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