The Golden Farce
The rain had been falling for three days when Elias Thorne packed the last of his tools into the canvas bag, a ritual of departure that felt less like leaving and more like amputation. He stood in the narrow hallway of the textile mill, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and machine oil, watching the water drip from the eaves onto the cobblestones below. He was a man who understood the...
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