The Golden Maze
The ink is still wet on the parchment when I hear the heavy iron door of the central chamber groan shut, sealing me in with the dust and the silence. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and I am writing this to you, Clara, because I have no one else to speak to who might believe that I am still a man and not merely a function of the stone. I want you to know that I am not hiding. I am...
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