The Golden Suspect
The brass lantern hung in the window of the apothecary on Vellum Street, its glass panes frosted with the damp chill of the autumn evening, and I stood beneath its warm, amber glow, watching the rain slick the cobblestones into a mirror of the city’s decay, wondering if the light could burn away the darkness that had settled so deeply into the marrow of my bones since the morning my wife,...
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