The Golden Scar
The ink on my hands did not wash off, no matter how long I scrubbed with the rough, gray lye soap that smelled of burning wood and old regret. It settled into the whorls of my fingerprints, a dark tattoo of my own making, a seal that bound me to the work I had sworn to abandon. I stood before the mirror in the small, damp room of the boarding house, watching the black stain spread across my...
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