The Golden Crossing
The iron gate was not a gate at all, but a seam in the fabric of the world, a jagged scar of rusted metal that split the grey sky from the manicured, endless green of the Abbey grounds where I stood, trembling, my knuckles white on the cold iron bars that did not exist to keep me in but to keep the outside in. I was twelve years old, or perhaps thirteen, time had become a slippery eel in the...
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