The Golden Ritual
The morning light entered the hall of the Whitmore estate not as a guest, but as an intruder, slanting across the worn parquet floor with a cold, accusatory clarity. I stood before the grandfather clock, my hand resting on its mahogany casing, feeling the subtle, rhythmic tremor of the mechanism within. It was a sound I had spent thirty years learning to ignore, a mechanical heartbeat that now...
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