The Golden Song
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a smell. It was the scent of charred sugar and melting plastic, a sickly sweet incense that permeated the damp, wool-heavy air of the library on the corner of Oak and Main. For Elias Thorne, a man who had spent thirty years inhaling the dust of other people’s lives, the odor was a physical blow, a sudden violation of the sterile quiet he had curated...
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