The Golden Downtown
The brass key was warm in Elias Thorne’s palm, the metal having absorbed the heat of his hand over the course of the morning, a small, solid fact against the trembling of his fingers. He held it up to the light of the shop window, where the dust motes swirled in a lazy, indifferent dance, and then looked out at the street, where the cobblestones were still damp from a rain that had stopped an...
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