The Golden Mirror
Elias Thorne, stop that. The voice is not your own, though it sounds like the static that fills the radio when you turn it off, a low, grinding hum that sits in the teeth. You are standing in the archive room, the air thick with the smell of decaying lignin and the cold, metallic scent of the river that has seeped through the foundation for the third time this year. You are holding a file, the...
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