The Golden Visit
The air in the foyer of Blackwood Manor did not merely stagnate; it breathed, a slow, cold exhalation that ruffled the dust motes dancing in the shafts of afternoon light and settled the hair on Elias Thorne’s neck with the weight of a damp hand. Elias, thirty-four years old and an architect by trade, stood with his back to the grand staircase, his fingers tracing the peeling wallpaper with a...
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