The Golden Visit
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the kind of grey, weeping day that makes the cobblestones of the old town smell of wet wool and ancient decay. You held it in your hands, feeling the weight of the paper, a weight that seemed heavier than the physical object warranted, as if the ink itself were a living thing, pulsing with a slow, dark rhythm. It was from the Archivist, a man you had known only...
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