The Golden Crossing
The rain against the windowpane was not a sound but a pressure, a heavy, wet thumb pressing against the glass of the world, muffling the distant, frantic hum of the city into a low, indistinct roar that felt less like traffic and more like the collective, anxious breathing of a thousand sleeping minds trapped in concrete cages. Eleanor sat in the center of the mahogany desk, a chair that had...
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