The Golden Song
The rain against the windowpane of the fourth-floor office was not merely a sound but a physical presence, a rhythmic, insistent drumming that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones, a low-frequency hum that blurred the sharp edges of the fluorescent lights and the gray, unyielding surface of his desk, where the quarterly reports lay stacked like the petrified strata...
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