The Golden Crossing
The ink was still wet on the spine of the ledger when Elias Thorne’s hand began to shake, a tremor so fine it looked like the paper itself was vibrating against the damp wood of the desk. He pressed his palm flat against the table, the rough grain biting into his skin, trying to steady the weight of his own body which felt increasingly like a sack of wet sand that gravity was slowly dragging...
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