The Golden Ritual
The hammer lay in Elias’s palm, its rubber grip slick with sweat and the fine, grey dust of rotted joists. He was forty-two, a structural engineer by trade, which meant he knew exactly how a house failed: it was a matter of load paths, shear walls, and the slow betrayal of wood by fungus. But the house on Sycamore Street was failing in a way that defied the code. The decay was not uniform; it...
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