The Golden Farce
The soup was thin, a pale, watery thing that sloshed against the ceramic rim of the bowl with a sound like small bones breaking, and Thomas stood in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around the heat of the vessel, feeling the warmth seep into the knuckles of his right hand, the hand that had once held a rifle steady enough to stop a man’s heart from beating, the hand that had now forgotten how to...
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