The Golden Suspect
The ink dried on the parchment with a sound like a sigh, a soft, wet exhalation that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards of the circular chamber, a room so small and so perfectly round that the light from the single high window fell in a precise, unchanging column, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, a rhythm that matched the beating of my...
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