The Golden Visit
The gate of the Ashwood Archive stood open. It had not been open in forty years. Silas Vane stood before it. The iron was rusted to a deep, blood-like orange. It looked like a wound that refused to close. He was a small man, thin as a reed. His coat was old wool, patched at the elbows. He did not look like a thief. He looked like a ghost that had forgotten how to leave. Inside, the air was...
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