The Golden Suspect
Elias Thorne counted the hours. Fourteen years of service, reduced to a tally of days remaining before the pension came through, each one a small, dry stone in a pocket that grew heavier with every passing week. The Blackwood Institute smelled of dust and old paper, a scent that had worked its way into the fibers of his wool coat and the creases of his hands, a smell that was now...
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