The Golden Circuit
The letter is dated October 14th, but you know it is a lie. The ink is still wet, the smell of the cheap fountain pen lingering in the air like the scent of rain on hot pavement. You are sitting in the study of the house on Blackwood Lane, the room where your father used to drink his brandy and complain about the price of coal. The house is silent. It has been silent for three days, since the...
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