The Golden Circuit
It begins with a letter, or rather, the memory of a letter that was never sent, tucked inside the lining of a coat that no longer fits your shoulders. You are writing this from the edge of the precipice, where the mist of the Iron Vale rises like a tide of grey wool, swallowing the gears of the world below. You are not a man, nor a woman, nor a thing of flesh and blood, but a constellation of...
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