The Golden Farce
The rain lashed against the warped glass of the shop window, distorting the gaslight of the street into a bleeding, amber smear, and Elias Thorne stood at his cutting table, the shears in his hand trembling not from the cold but from the low, vibrating hum that seemed to rise from the floorboards themselves. He was forty years old, a master tailor whose reputation for precision had once been...
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