The Golden Farce
The fire started in the chimney of the old textile mill, a dry, hungry snap that echoed through the soot-blackened rafters before the first orange tongue licked the timber. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the attic, his hands trembling not from the heat, which had not yet reached him, but from the weight of the silence that followed the scream. He held the ledger. It was a heavy,...
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