The Golden Farce
You pack the last book into the box. It is a heavy volume, bound in cracked leather, the spine snapping like a dry twig under your grip. The dust motes dance in the single shaft of afternoon light that pierces the curtains, illuminating the decay of the house. You are leaving. That is the fact. The estate is insolvent, the mortgage is a noose around the neck of the property, and you, the...
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