The Golden Farce
The gold locket sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold and heavy. It was a thick, oval piece of metal, tarnished by decades of neglect, resting on the dust sheet that covered the dining table. The house groaned around him, the Victorian bones settling into the November chill. His hand trembled. It was a fine, rhythmic shake, a betrayal of his own body that he had learned to hide in his pockets. He...
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