The Golden Suspect
The rain had not stopped for three days when my father finally packed the bag, a motion so quiet and deliberate that it seemed to pull the air out of the room, leaving us both suspended in a grey, damp silence that tasted of wet wool and old iron. He was not a man of many words, nor was he a man of many possessions, but that bag was the one thing he held with a grip that tightened as the years...
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