The Golden Maze
The bell rang. It was not a church bell. It was the town crier’s horn. Or perhaps the steam whistle from the mill. The sound was sharp. It cut the air. It cut the silence. Elias stood by the window. His hands were still. They were stained with gold. The metal dust had settled into the creases of his palms. It had settled into the lines of his life. He looked at his hands. They were old. They...
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