The Golden Myth
You are in the cell. The walls are concrete, cold and grey. The light is fluorescent. It hums. A low, sick buzz. You count the cracks in the ceiling. One. Two. Three. "Is he coming?" you ask. The guard, a young man with tired eyes, looks at you. He does not answer. He shifts his weight. His boots scrape the floor. "Ask me again in an hour," he says. You wait. The hour passes. The light...
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