The Golden Suspect
The glass is broken. You know this before you touch it. The shards sit in the dust of the archive, a constellation of jagged teeth pointing toward the ceiling. You are the Keeper. You are old, and your hands tremble, but your mind is a steel trap. The air is thick with the scent of mildew and dried ink. Outside, the rain hammers the slate roof like a thousand tiny fists. You do not look at the...
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