The Golden Suspect
Walter stood in the center of the town square, the cobblestones slick with a mist that smelled of iron and wet wool, and he tried to remember if he had locked the door to the house, a door that no longer existed in the memory of the building but remained, stubbornly, in the architecture of his mind. He was not a man who belonged to the square, nor to the town of Oakhaven, nor to the year 1924,...
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