The Golden Crossing
The glass is cracking. That is the first thing you notice, not the heat, nor the sweat beading on your upper lip, but the sound. It is a high, thin ping, like a finger tapped against the rim of a crystal goblet, and it repeats, a rhythmic fracture spreading across the surface of the world you have built. You are standing in the center of the small, airless office, the blinds drawn tight against...
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