The Golden Suspect
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the paper thick and cream-colored, smelling faintly of the chemical dust from the post office, and it sat on the kitchen table like a small, dead bird, its official seal stamped in red ink that seemed to bleed into the fibers. I am Elias, and I am twelve years old, and I know that the silence in this house is not peace but the held breath before a scream, a...
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