The Golden Downtown
The brass key was warm in your hand, heavier than it looked, its teeth worn smooth by decades of turning in locks that no longer existed. You stood in the hallway of the Whitmore estate, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and old paper, a scent that seemed to settle in the lungs like silt. It was 1924, and the war was over, but the silence in this house had not. It was a heavy,...
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