The Golden Scar
You know the rule. Do not look at the door. It is a simple command. Simple enough to hold in your mouth like a stone. You are a scholar of history, or at least you used to be. Now you are a curator of silence. The city is grey. The rain is a fine mist that smells of ozone and old paper. You live in a high-rise. The glass is clean. The air is filtered. You breathe easy. You breathe clean. Your...
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