The Golden Farce
You step off the train into the grey sleet of Oakhaven, the air biting at your face with a cold that feels less like weather and more like a verdict. You are fourteen, though you feel older, weighed down by a secret that has grown heavy in your chest for three years. In your coat pocket, wrapped in oilcloth, lies the shard. It is not gold, despite what the townsfolk whisper. It is glass. Thick,...
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