The Golden Circuit
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, bearing the heavy, cream-colored seal of the Bureau of Historical Preservation, a document that felt less like paper and more like a shroud draped over the bones of my life. I sat in my study, the rain lashing against the leaded glass of the window, the sound a rhythmic drumming that mirrored the dull, persistent ache in my left hip, the joint that had carried...
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