The Golden Suspect
The water rose not with the violence of a flood but with the slow, inevitable patience of a tide that had long since forgotten it was supposed to recede, swallowing the lower steps of the mill and then the cobblestones of the high street until the town of Oakhaven was a floating island in a sea of grey, stagnant reflection. I stood in the doorway of the library, my hands trembling not from the...
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