The Golden Suspect
The steel burin felt cold and heavy in Elias Thorne’s palm, a dense weight that anchored him to the workbench as the fog pressed against the workshop windows. He was forty-two years old, and his hands, which had carved the town’s history into silver and gold for two decades, were trembling slightly, a fine vibration that he attributed to the damp chill seeping through the floorboards. The...
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