The Golden Crossing
The glass bowl in the center of the mahogany table hummed with a low, persistent frequency, a sound that seemed to originate not from the vessel itself but from the marrow of the bones of those who sat around it. Inside, suspended in a viscous, amber-colored liquid, swam a single, translucent fish. It was not a fish of any species Margaret Holloway could name, for its scales shifted between the...
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