The Golden Cellar
The crowbar bit into the stone with a sound like a dry bone snapping, the vibration traveling up Elias Thorne’s arms and settling heavy in his chest. He was fifty-two, and his knees had begun to complain about the damp stone floor of Blackwood Estate’s cellar three weeks ago, a physical reminder that the mandatory retirement date was now a countdown rather than a distant abstraction. He wanted...
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