The Golden Myth
The shovel hit the earth with a dull thud. Marcus did not stop. He swung the blade down, slicing through the frozen mud of the backyard. The air was thin and sharp. It bit his lungs. He worked in silence. The neighbors watched from their windows. Their eyes were cold. They saw a man breaking the ground. They did not see the man breaking himself. Marcus was an immigrant. He had come to this...
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