The Whirring Prophecy
The analytical engine shudders awake, brass arms whirling as paper unspools in a frantic ribbon. Ink stamps a map across it — alleys, bridges, and a single inked X marking the abandoned clocktower at the city's edge.
The card grows warm in your palm, almost like a heartbeat. Outside, fog curls against the window, and somewhere a distant bell tolls the hour. Eleven.