The Golden Cellar
The frost had not yet taken the last of the color from the garden, but the air in the cellar was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying roots. I had been a police officer for twenty-two years, a tenure that had stripped the flesh from my bones and left only the rigid architecture of duty, a framework I had long since mistaken for identity. My name, Elias Thorne, had become a...
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