The Golden Crossing
You wake in a hospital bed, though the sheets are not white but a coarse, industrial gray that smells of wet stone and old pennies, and you know with the sudden, sharp certainty of a dream remembered upon waking that your left hand is missing, the wrist ending in a ragged, pink stump that weeps a dark, viscous fluid which pools on the mattress and spreads in a slow, circular map of ruin, and...
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