The Golden Song
The rain hit the windowpane. It sounded like static. Elias sat in the chair. The leather was cold. He touched the armrest. His fingers were rough. They were stained with ink. And rust. The room was small. A cell, almost. But it was a study. Books lined the walls. They were old. The spines cracked. Dust lay on top. He looked at the object on the desk. It was a metronome. Brass. Heavy. It did not...
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