The Golden Mirror
The banquet hall in the basement of the St. Jude’s Community Center smelled of roasted garlic, damp wool, and the metallic tang of old fear. It was a Tuesday, which meant the annual fundraising gala for the neighborhood watch, an event that required a certain degree of performative cheerfulness that drained the soul like water from a cracked vessel. Elias Thorne stood by the punch bowl, his tie...
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