The Golden Ritual
The rain against the windowpane of the high, sterile office on the forty-third floor sounds like the scratching of ten thousand small, desperate nails trying to find purchase in the wet wood of a coffin that has not yet been sealed, and you sit there, motionless, in the center of the room, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your fingers interlaced with a precision that belies the trembling...
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