The Golden Scar

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2026-08-17 11:41:34 -

The Golden Scar

The wind tore at the flimsy canvas of our tent like a living thing. It was not merely cold; it was a hunger. We sat in the dark, the two of us, bound by the silence that had grown teeth. Margaret’s face was gaunt, a map of exhaustion and fear. Her eyes, usually so bright, were dull. She looked at me, then away. The air smelled of sulfur and wet ash. Outside, the sky was a bruised purple,...

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