The Golden Suspect
The rain lashed against the high, arched windows of the University of St. Jude’s, a relentless, grey drumming that seemed to vibrate through the very stone of the walls. I sat at my heavy oak desk, the wood dark and polished by centuries of hands, and stared at the manuscript before me. It was a collection of oral histories, transcribed in the old vernacular, the language of the valley folk who...
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