The brass key hangs on the hook by the door. It has hung there for forty years. You touch it every morning. The metal is cold. The weight is familiar. You are a restorer of clocks. You fix them. You do not ask why they stop. You do not ask why they start. You are good at your job. You are silent. You are alone.
The shop is on the corner of Elm and Fifth. It smells of oil and dust. Glass cases...
The fever broke on a Tuesday, but the hunger remained, a hollow ache that no amount of broth could fill. Margaret Holloway sat in the corner of the infirmary ward at St. Jude’s Industrial Hospital, her hands resting on the cold iron bedframe, watching the dust motes dance in the single beam of light that pierced the heavy velvet curtains. The air smelled of carbolic acid and damp wool, a scent...
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