The Golden Mirror
"Hale. Thomas Hale. You’re in here, aren’t you?" The voice belongs to Sergeant Miller, and it carries the specific, gravelly weight of a man who has spent thirty years breathing coal dust and chewing tobacco. You are sitting on a wooden bench in the back of the station house, the wood hard against your spine, smelling of damp wool and old sweat. The room is a tomb of brick and iron, the air...
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