The Golden Downtown
You will find the ink in your own veins, if you press hard enough, a dark and viscous thing that does not want to leave the vessel of your body, and you are told by the village elders, those men with faces like dried riverbeds and eyes that hold the cold indifference of winter stones, that this is the price of the air, that the golden dust which settles on the rooftops of Oakhaven is not merely...
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