The Golden Master
The count was exact: one hundred and forty-two drops of the preservative, measured into a glass vial that trembled in Elias Thorne’s hands as the first drop fell, followed by the second, each one a small, deliberate act of defiance against the encroaching gray. He had spent the better part of the morning in this rhythmic labor, his back aching from the stoop, the air in the attic studio thick...
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