The Golden Master
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a heavy, suspended curtain of grey mist that clung to the eaves of the old Victorian house, seeping through the rot in the window frames and settling into the very bones of the structure. Inside, the silence was not empty but thick, a living thing that breathed in time with the slow, rhythmic creak of the floorboards. Elias Thorne stood in...
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