The Golden Song
The ink was still wet on the ledger when I saw it, a dark, viscous smear that refused to dry, a stain that seemed to breathe against the crisp white cotton of the page, and I knew then, with a certainty that settled into my marrow like the damp chill of the cellar where we kept our oldest accounts, that the institution had finally decided to take me, not as a debtor, but as a sacrifice, a final...
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