The Golden Song
The rain did not fall. It hung. A gray curtain of suspended droplets. I waited at the gate. The iron was cold. Wet. My uniform was dry. Too dry. The fabric clung to me. It smelled of wool and old sweat. I touched the collar. The gold braid. It was there. Always there. I walked in. The house loomed. White clapboard. Peeling. The windows were dark. I had been here before. Not as a guest. Not as a...
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