The Faded Attic
Act I Can a man who builds time be trusted to keep it? Fadumo Hussein asked the question to the empty room, his voice sounding thin against the plaster, as he packed his chisels into a canvas bag that smelled of oil and old sweat. He was forty, a clockmaker in a city that did not appear on any map, a place where the fog was so thick it tasted of salt from a shore he had never seen, a taste that...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews