The Golden Suspect

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2026-08-23 17:36:46 -

The ash was under my fingernails again. I scrubbed at the wood of the bedside table, the grain rough against my skin, trying to remove the black grit that had settled there in the dream. It was not dirt. It was the residue of the chapel. I had built it, stone by stone, over ten years, and now it stood blackened against the sky, waiting for me to sign its death. I looked at my hands. They were...

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