The Golden Farce
"Do you see the seam, Arthur? The tear in the weave?" The question hung in the air, heavy with the scent of ozone and old paper, suspended between us like a held breath. I looked at the man standing before me, his face a mask of such serene, terrifying patience that it seemed less like a feature of his anatomy and more like a mask he had worn for centuries, or perhaps eternities, until it had...
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