The Golden Scar
You sit in the dark. The house is still. It is a big house. Old wood. It creaks when the wind blows. You are waiting. You do not know for what. Perhaps for the knock. Perhaps for the silence to break. You press your thumb against the mark on your palm. It is a scar. It is not new. It is worn. Smooth now. Like a river stone. You have touched it a thousand times. It is the only thing that is...
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