The Golden Crossing

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2026-08-18 11:26:08 -

The air in the Whitmore estate did not smell of rot, but of ozone and burnt sugar, a sweet, cloying scent that hung heavy in the October twilight as the guests gathered for the harvest supper. It was a peculiar kind of feast, one that seemed to defy the natural order of things, where the food arrived on silver platters that were still warm from the touch of invisible hands, and the wine flowed...

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