The Golden Downtown
The ink on the vellum is not yet dry when you hear the footsteps approaching the heavy oak door of your study, a rhythmic pounding that sounds less like a gait and more like the hammering of a blacksmith’s mallet against a cooling anvil, each strike resonating in the hollows of your chest where your heart sits behind the cage of your ribs, beating in a frantic, arrhythmic panic that mirrors the...
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