The Golden Mirror
The letter lay on my desk, the paper thin and yellowing at the edges, smelling faintly of the damp cellar where I had spent the last forty-eight hours decoding the Thorne estate’s final inventory. It was dated November 14, 1924, and I had written it to no one, or perhaps to the man who would eventually read it, a future self I hoped was braver than the one currently trembling in his office. I...
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