The Golden Maze
The hand was the problem. It had always been the problem. Caleb held it out. He looked at it. The fingers were long. The knuckles were swollen. The skin was pale. It was a good hand. It was a useful hand. It was his hand. He sat in the chair. The room was dark. The candle burned low. The wax dripped. It made a small sound. *Drip.* He remembered the day he enlisted. He was young. The uniform fit...
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