The Shadow of the Black Crucible
The apartment smelled like old cigarettes and older mistakes. Jack Cole stood in the doorway, his duffel bag heavy on his shoulder, and looked at the space that had been his father's for thirty years. The fire had taken the kitchen and half the living room, but what remained was enough: a desk, a bookshelf, a chair tilted at an angle that suggested his father had been leaning forward when the...
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