The Golden Myth
The ink had dried into a rust-colored crust on the ledger, a brown stain that looked less like a record and more like a wound that had never fully healed. I sat at my desk in the basement of the municipal hall, the air thick with the smell of damp paper and old dust, listening to the rain tap against the single, high window. It was a Tuesday, though the days had begun to bleed into one another,...
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