The Golden Visit
The rain against the windowpane of the county archives did not sound like water, but like the scratching of fingernails on a chalkboard, a persistent, dry friction that seemed to grind against the eardrums of anyone who lingered too long in the dim, dusty air. Margaret Holloway sat at her desk, the one positioned closest to the heating vent that hummed a low, tectonic grove, and she watched the...
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