The Golden Suspect
The ink on the ledger was still wet, glistening with the humidity of the cellar, when I felt the first tremor of the fracture. It began in the marrow of my right wrist, a deep, tectonic grinding that resonated through the bones of my hand and up into the elbow joint, a sensation not unlike the snapping of a winter branch under the weight of accumulated snow. I paused, my quill hovering above...
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