The Golden Song
The rain did not fall; it pressed against the windowpane like a palm seeking entry. You sat in the center of the room, the floorboards groaning beneath the weight of your stillness. The house was silent, a silence so thick it had texture, tasting of dust and old paper and the metallic tang of blood that had long since dried into the grain of the wood. You were a soldier, or had been. The rank...
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