The Golden Oath
The brass buttons on my uniform had long since lost their shine, worn down by the rough wool of my sleeves and the relentless friction of a life that refused to hold still. I sat in the corner of the watchhouse, the silence pressing against my eardrums like deep water, my hands resting on my knees, stained with the soot of the coal cellar below. The year was 1912, or at least that is what the...
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