The Golden Downtown
The rain against the windowpane was a persistent, rhythmic tapping, a sound that had long since ceased to be mere weather and had become a kind of auditory architecture for Elias Thorne’s days. He sat in the high-backed chair by the fire, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight, a sound that mirrored the subtle ache in his knees. The library was a sanctuary of dust and silence, a room...
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