The Golden Maze
"You missed the spot." The voice is not loud. It is dry. It is the voice of the man who owns the building. He points a finger at the dark stain on your sleeve. It is a smear of soot. It is a smear of blood. You do not know which. You do not care. You only know that it is there. You are a woman of forty. Your hands are rough. Your fingernails are short. They are broken at the edges. You have...
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