The Golden Mirror
The ink in the bottle was thick, a sludge that resisted the nib, and Clara Vane counted the hours remaining until the office closed with a precision that felt like a countdown to an execution. It was October, 1904, and the air in the Whitmore Insurance Agency smelled of stale tobacco, damp wool, and the faint, acidic tang of fear that permeated the linoleum floors. She had packed the last of...
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