Perplexity

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The storm had no sound in Nareth Hollow that night—only a terrible stillness, as if even thunder feared to disturb the old workshop at the end of the crooked lane. There, behind warped shutters and smoke-blackened panes, the Clockmaster worked.

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In a quiet town nestled between mountains, there was an old clockmaker named Elias. His workshop was small, filled with the scent of oiled wood and the soft tick-tock of countless clocks. Each piece he made was flawless, but what set him apart was something no one knew: Elias’s clocks didn’t simply tell time—they stored memories.