The Golden Myth

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2026-08-17 18:42:21 -

The Golden Myth

The rain in this place does not fall; it hovers, a thick, grey curtain that smells of wet iron and old copper, pressing against the glass until the air inside the station room feels heavy enough to crush the bones in my chest. I am sitting at a long table made of pale wood that looks like it has been bleached by time, and across from me is Thomas Bradshaw, whose eyes are the color of the mud on...

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