The Golden Suspect
The rain fell in sheets of gray iron. It drummed against the windows of the Watchtower. The glass was thin. It vibrated. Inside, the air was cold. It smelled of damp wool and old brass. Silas stood by the window. His back was straight. His uniform was dark. It clung to him. The fabric was worn thin at the elbows. The seams were fraying. He looked at his hands. They rested on the sill. The...
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