The Golden Myth
The ledger in Elias Thorne’s breast pocket weighed no more than a few ounces, yet it felt like a stone anchor dragging against his ribs. He had logged three miles of the northern ridge since dawn, his boots crunching over frost-hardened scree, the cold biting through his wool trousers with a damp, persistent ache that settled deep in his joints. At fifty-two, with thirty years of service etched...
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