The Golden Circuit

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 14:17:53 -

The rain hits the tin roof like a drumroll for a funeral. I am wet. My hands are slick with the slime of the pond, the dark, viscous water that smells of rot and iron. I am holding him. He is heavy. He is not a boy anymore. He is a thing. A bundle of wet fur and sharp, broken beaks. He is the last of the brood. The others are gone, picked off by the crows or the cold or my own trembling hands....

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