The Golden Visit
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of Whitmore Street into slick, black mirrors, and it was in this damp, industrial twilight that Elias Thorne stood before the tall, narrow mirror in the back room of his shop. He was a man of sixty years, his hands thick and calloused from decades of handling leather and thread, his face a map of...
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