The Golden Ritual
The hill town of Valverde was waking up, its terraced houses catching the early light, but the municipal archive sat in shadow, a concrete block that smelled of wet dust and old paper. Vincenzo Trapani stood in the courtyard, his left hand trembling as he held a shattered bronze mirror, the shards cold against his palm. He was thirty-four, a night watchman with a pension three years away, and...
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