The Golden Mirror
The fire started in the sugar refinery on a Tuesday, which was a day for work, not for miracles, and the smoke rose so thick and orange that the town of Harrowgate seemed to be bleeding from the inside out. It was the kind of heat that tasted of copper and burnt hair, a physical weight that pressed against the eardrums and clouded the mind with a frantic, buzzing anxiety. In the center of the...
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