The Golden Farce
The rust began to bleed from the baseboards of Blackwood Hall on a Tuesday, a slow, arterial weep that stained the pale oak floor with the color of old blood. You are Elias Thorne, forty-five years old, a retired constable whose heart beats with the erratic, arrhythmic thud of a clock left too long in the rain, and you stand now in the foyer with a hammer in your hand, watching the stain spread...
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