The Golden Cellar
The letter lay on the damp flagstones, its ink faded to the color of old blood. Elias Thorne picked it up, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from the arrhythmia that had begun to seize his chest three weeks prior. It was a final notice from the solicitors, a polite, sterile document that outlined the auction of the Thorne manor’s contents, scheduled for the following Tuesday. He read the...
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