The Golden Crossing
The iron bridge did not burn. That was the first wrongness, the silence where a roar should have been. I stood at the parapet, my hands slick with the cold sweat of a man who has run out of reasons to live, watching the water below churn in a grey, indifferent swirl. The smoke from the factories on the hillside did not rise in plumes but hung heavy, a bruise against the pale morning sky,...
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