The Golden Myth
The deed to the Blackwood homestead was a heavy, folded square of paper, its edges soft with the friction of Elias Thorne’s thumb. He held it against his chest, a shield against the autumn wind that cut through the gaps in his wool coat, his lungs rattling with a dry, persistent cough that felt less like an illness and more like a mechanical failure. The stone arch of the village gate loomed...
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