The Golden Suspect
The coat hung on the hook by the door. It was not a garment. It was an artifact. It was a relic of a war fought in another century, or perhaps in a parallel dimension that had collapsed into the sterile fluorescent hum of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Elias Thorne stood before it. He did not touch it. To touch it would be to admit it was real. And if it was real, the rest of the building...
0 Comments 0 Shares 13 Views 0 Reviews