The Golden Crossing
The rain did not fall so much as it was pressed down from the ceiling of the sky, a relentless, grey static that blurred the edges of the world outside the window. I sat in the corner of the break room, a space defined by the hum of the industrial fridge and the stale scent of burnt coffee. My name is Arthur, and for the past six months, I have worked as a data archivist for the Department of...
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