The Golden Myth
The ledger was bound in a leather so pale and taut it seemed to breathe, and when Director Halloway pressed it into your hands, the smell of old iron and dried blood rose from the spine, a scent that did not belong in the sterile, gaslit quiet of the Whitmore Industrial Trust archive. You are Clara Vane, thirty-two years old, a junior archivist who has spent the last five years sorting the...
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