The Golden Ritual
The tremor in my left hand was not a tremor at all, but a slow, grinding erosion, a tectonic shift in the architecture of my own flesh that I had spent the last three years trying to diagnose with the sterile, detached vocabulary of the laboratory, until the moment the mirror in the break room caught the reflection of my face and showed me not a scientist, but a ruin. I had been staring at the...
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