The Golden Circuit
The letter sat on the mahogany desk. It was thick. Heavy. Like a stone in a shoe. Silas read it. He read it again. The ink was black. The paper was cream. It smelled of dust and old fear. He was a detective. Or he used to be. Now he was a ghost in a house that breathed. The house was grand. Too grand. The Victorian spires pierced the gray sky of London. The rain lashed the windows. *Tap. Tap....
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