The Golden Downtown
The golden sap oozed from the cracks in the plaster of the hallway wall, a viscous, amber fluid that smelled of crushed apples and old earth, and you watched it drip onto the floorboards with the same detached horror you felt when your mother, Clara, coughed blood into her handkerchief that morning. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, an archivist at the university who has spent the last...
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