The Golden Farce
The heavy oak door groaned, a sound like a dying breath, as you pushed it open with your shoulder. The air inside the manor was thick, stale with the scent of dried lavender and old paper, a smell that had permeated the very stones of the house over three centuries. You stood in the hallway, your fingers brushing against the cold brass of the banister, feeling the tremor in your hands that you...
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