The Golden Visit
The ink was already dry when you first noticed it, a jagged scar of violet across the back of your hand, pulsing with a heat that had nothing to do with the winter air seeping through the floorboards of the hollowed-out church. You were twelve, small enough to fit into the gaps between the pews, and you had come here to steal, or perhaps to hide, the distinction blurred by the hunger that had...
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