The Golden Cellar
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the gravel path to the municipal archive into a slick, muddy ribbon that wound through the overgrown hedges of the old town. Thomas Bradshaw walked with a heavy, deliberate gait, his boots soaking through with a cold that seeped into his bones, a physical manifestation of the dread that had been settling in his chest since the morning’s briefing....
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