The Golden Scar
The wagon wheels creak in a rhythm that feels less like motion and more like the grinding of teeth in a jaw that has been clamped shut for too long, and as you pull the reins tighter, the leather bites into your palms with a familiar, dull ache that grounds you in the physical reality of the road, reminding you that the dust kicking up behind you is not a metaphor for your life but merely...
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