The Golden Suspect
The road to the highlands was not a path so much as a suggestion, a faint scar of packed earth and mud that wound through the mist like a vein of silver in a dark stone, and you, Thomas Bradshaw, walked it with a burden on your back that was not wood nor stone but the heavy, unyielding weight of a secret that had been calcifying in your chest for forty years. The air tasted of pine and wet...
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