The Golden Cellar
You hold the ledger in your hands. It is heavy, bound in cracked leather that smells of mildew and old dust, a scent that clings to your knuckles even after you wipe them on your trousers. The spine is brittle, the pages yellowed to the color of weak tea, and the ink has faded to a ghostly grey in places where the binding has pulled away. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, a federal...
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