The Golden Crossing
The rain hits the tin roof like a handful of gravel. It is a cold, gray Tuesday. You stand by the window in the kitchen of the old farmhouse, watching the mud slide down the hill. Your uniform is dry. It is pressed. The brass buttons catch the dim light. You look like a man who belongs in a painting, not a house that smells of wet wool and stale bread. The door opens. Thomas steps in. He is...
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