The Golden Visit
The van that brought Elias Thorne to Blackwood Manor smelled of diesel and damp wool, a scent that clung to his clothes as he stepped out into the grey November light. He was forty-five, an archivist of modest renown but immense personal conviction, driven by a singular, obsessive devotion to the idea that historical record was the only true form of justice. His task was simple on paper:...
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