The Golden Visit
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, bearing the seal of the Archivist, a heavy wax stamp that smelled of dried lavender and old stone. It was addressed to me, Thomas Bradshaw, Junior Cataloguer, Section Four, in a hand I recognized as belonging to my father, though he had been dead for three years. The paper was thick, cream-colored, and felt like skin against my fingertips. I did not open it...
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