The Golden Farce
The rain on the blacktop drummed a rhythm that felt less like weather and more like a verdict, steady and unyielding as you walked away from the station. You did not look back. You knew the silhouette of the building against the gray sky, the way the gaslights blurred into halos through the wet air, and you knew that behind the glass, your father was still standing there, his hand raised in a...
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