The Golden Mirror
October 14, 1954. The rain has been falling for three days, a gray sheet that turns the streets of Blackwood into a river of mud and broken glass, and I am sitting in the back of a taxi, watching my own hands tremble so violently that I cannot light a cigarette without dropping the match into my lap. I am fifty-two years old, Elias Thorne, and I have spent the last twenty years trying to...
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