The Golden Master
"Stop it," Elias said. His voice was thin. A reed snapping in wind. Margaret did not stop. She scrubbed the table. The cloth was damp. The wood was old. It groaned under her hands. "Leave it," he said. "I can't leave it dirty, Eli." "It's not dirt. It's dust. Dust is time. Time is what we have. What we had." She looked at him. Her eyes were wet. Not with tears. With fear. "Who are you talking...
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