The Golden Myth
The house at the end of Pimlico Lane had always been gold, but never like this. This was a gold that spoke—not the soft gilt of picture frames or the faded leaf on church candles, but a gold that announced itself from the gutter upward, coating the cornice, the doorframe, the rusted letterbox with a varnish so thick it caught the July sun and held it there long after the shadows began to...
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