The Golden Suspect
The train cut the morning silence like a blade through wet cloth. Edward Ashworth stood on the platform, his breath pluming in the cold air, watching the locomotive disappear into the gray mist. He carried nothing but a small leather satchel. Inside was a single object. A golden wren. It was not real, of course. It was a sculpture, wrought by a blacksmith’s hand, but it possessed a weight that...
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