The Golden Cellar
The train cut through the fog like a hot knife through cold butter, shrieking as it descended the valley toward Harrowgate. Elias Thorne stood at the window, his hand pressed against the glass, watching the ancient oaks blur into a streak of charcoal and grey. He was a man of seventy, his face a map of deep fissures carved by wind and worry, his hands thick and knotted like the roots of the...
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