The Golden Myth
The bread in the tin was hard, stale as bone, and Marcus Thorne knew he would have to chew it for minutes to make it palatable. He sat on a flat rock overlooking the churning gray expanse of the sea, the wind whipping his wool uniform into a taut sail. It was not the wind that chilled him, but the silence of the man sleeping beside him, a silence that had grown heavier than the stone under his...
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