The Golden Master
The cold in the Holloway house was not merely a temperature; it was a physical weight, a damp shroud that settled into the marrow and refused to lift. Arthur stood before the large, warped mirror in the hallway, adjusting the collar of a coat that had seen better decades. The fabric was thin, worn at the elbows, smelling faintly of camphor and old tobacco. He was a man of precise habits, a...
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