The Golden Scar
The sky tore open on a Tuesday. It was not rain. It was a sound. A high, thin shriek that vibrated in the teeth. The glass in the windows of Millhaven shattered inward. Not out. Inward. The air turned thick. It tasted of copper and ozone. People ran. They ran from the light. The light came from the ground. It rose from the cracked pavement of the square. It was white. It was blinding. It was...
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