The Golden Cellar
The cellar air tasted of wet limestone and old paper, a dampness that had seeped into the very fibers of Elias Thorne’s suit over the three hours he had spent cataloging his father’s final estate. He held the tarnished gold signet ring between his thumb and forefinger, its surface cold and unyielding, the engraving of a single, stylized oak tree barely visible beneath the grime. For twenty...
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