The Golden Echoes
The rain hits the warehouse roof like a handful of gravel. You are on the floor. Your ribs ache, a dull, rhythmic throb that matches the drip from the leaking gutter. You pick yourself up. Your knees crack. You are old. The floor is wet concrete, cold and unyielding under your boots. You wipe your face with a sleeve that smells of rust and old paper. You are not a man who belongs here. You are...
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