The Golden Maze
The road does not end. It coils. It spirals inward like a nautilus shell carved from iron and rust. You walk. Your boots strike the gravel with a rhythm that has long since ceased to be a choice. It is a metronome set by a hand you no longer see. You are a soldier. You know this by the weight of your gear, the stiffness in your joints, the phantom ache in the shoulder where the strap once cut...
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