The Golden Farce
The dust in the attic of Blackwood Manor does not settle; it hangs in the air like a suspended judgment, catching the pale, indifferent light of the moon that filters through the single, grimy skylight. You are Elias Thorne, forty years old, and your hands tremble as you hold the crumbling, golden-inked diary of Clara, your wife, who has been dead for three years, a death that was officially...
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