The Golden Scar
The door is locked. You know this because you have tried the handle forty times this morning. It does not move. It is a solid oak slab, painted white, standing in the hallway of a house that feels too large for the silence inside. You are a clerk. Your name is Thomas Bradshaw. You work in the basement of the building next door, filing paper that smells of dust and old ink. You have been filing...
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