The Golden Visit
The brass shears were cold in Elara’s hands, the metal biting into her palms with a dull, persistent ache that had nothing to do with the temperature outside. She held them up to the light, watching the glint of the blade, a small, sharp star in the dim room, while the clock on the mantel ticked with the heavy, deliberate rhythm of a heart under strain. It was late, the kind of late where the...
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