The Golden Ritual
The resignation letter lay on the mahogany desk, its ink still wet, a small dark pool against the pale wood. Elias Thorne adjusted his cufflinks, the silver catching the grey light of the November afternoon. He was thirty-four years old, an actuary of twelve years, and he was done. He needed to secure a private nurse for Clara, whose lungs were failing, whose breath rattled like dry leaves in a...
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