The Golden Suspect
The bell tolls. It is a low, bronze sound that seems to come from inside the stone itself. I am old. My hands shake, not from the cold, though the air in the vault is biting, but from a tremor that has lived in my bones for thirty years. I hold the object. It is a coin. No, not a coin. It is a token. A disc of gold, worn smooth as a river stone. It is warm. It burns against my palm. Father...
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