The Golden Farce
The rain on the cobblestones of the high pass had the specific, gritty texture of old iron filings, and it was this particular quality of the downpour that caused you to falter in your stride, your boots slipping on the slick, ancient stone as you clutched the satchel against your chest with a desperation that bordered on the physical pain of holding a shattered limb together. You are walking...
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