The Golden Farce
The rain had not stopped in three days, a steady, gray sheet that blurred the edges of the window glass and turned the world outside into a smear of wet slate and bruised purple. I sat at my desk, the mahogany worn smooth by decades of hands that had filed reports and signed orders, and I looked at the object in front of me. It was a small, brass compass, unmarked, its needle trembling with a...
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