The Golden Circuit
The bird died on the third day. It fell from the sky. Not a crash. A surrender. A soft, wet thud against the windshield of the white sedan. The glass did not break. The skin of the animal did not tear. It simply folded, like wet paper. Margaret saw it. She was driving. The rain was a gray curtain. The road was a ribbon of black tar stretching into the nothingness of the pine forest. She stopped...
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