The Golden Circuit
The rain against the windowpane of the sanatorium on Blackwood Hill was not a sound to be heard but a pressure to be felt, a constant, low-frequency hum that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of your bones. You sat at the heavy oak desk, the surface worn smooth by decades of anxious hands, and watched the condensation form, slide, and disappear, a cycle as inevitable as your own slow unraveling....
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