The Golden Myth
The cold in your hands is not merely a temperature; it is a verdict, a slow freezing of the blood that reminds you, with every tick of the clock in the village hall, that you are a vessel destined to empty. You sit at the edge of the long oak table, your fingers interlaced so tightly that the knuckles turn white, a silent protest against the numbness that has claimed your extremities first and...
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