The Golden Visit
The ink in my pen seems to move slower than usual, as if the air in the archive has thickened into a gelatinous substance that resists the flow of truth, and I find myself staring at the date, October 14, 1912, wondering if I have the strength to record what has just happened without the tremor in my hand betraying the magnitude of the betrayal. I am Elias Thorne, forty-five years old, and for...
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