The Golden Crossing
The jar is heavy. It is not heavy because of its contents, which are only honey, but because of what it represents, a small, golden anchor in the churning grey of your reality. You are Elias, forty-two years old, and your boots are soaked through with the cold, red sludge of the riverbank. The war has not ended; it has merely changed its shape, becoming a landscape of silence and broken...
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