The Golden Echoes
The rain has not stopped for three days, a relentless, cold sheet of water that turns the cobblestones of the city into a mirror of gray sludge, and you stand in the doorway of the workshop, watching the mist curl around your boots, holding the leather-bound ledger in your hands as if it were a holy text, your fingers white-knuckled against the cover, the weight of it a physical pressure...
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