The Golden Crossing
The frost bites your knuckles. You ignore it. You are a man of craft, of wood and wire, and you do not flinch from cold. You are in the car. The engine idles, a low growl that vibrates through the steering wheel into your bones. Outside, the fog is thick. It eats the headlights. It swallows the road. You are driving north. Toward the ridge. Toward the place where the trees grow backward. You...
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