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Weekly Contest #275
Zaman’s back was almost always sore, his eyes perpetually strained from countless hours bent over his cluttered workbench, meticulously fixing the watches and clocks people brought to him. His tiny shop was cramped and dimly lit, tucked away on an old street rarely touched by the light of day. The air was thick with the smell of brass and dust, and the gentle, layered ticking of hundreds of timepieces filled the silence. Each clock carried its own story, its own distinct rhythm, and Zaman treated every single one as though it were a part of ...
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