The Golden Visit
The steam from the boiler room curled up through the floorboards of the manor, a ghost that no one could see but everyone could smell, carrying the scent of coal dust and wet iron into the drawing room where you sat with your hands folded tightly in your lap, knuckles white, waiting for the clock to strike six. It was the year 1912, and the house was a machine as much as it was a home, a...
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