The Golden Farce

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2026-08-17 17:59:53 -

The Golden Farce

The door of the infirmary was heavy oak. It groaned. Margaret hated the sound. It sounded like a bone breaking. She sat on the cold steel bench. Her left hand rested in her lap. The fingers were stiff. The skin was paper-thin. She looked at them. They were not her hands. Or perhaps they were, but changed. The nails were bitten to the quick. The knuckles were swollen. A map of old violence. The...

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