The Golden Circuit
The nib of the fountain pen scratched against the lined paper, a sound so fine it seemed to pull the dust motes dancing in the late afternoon light into a single, trembling line. I am writing this down because if I do not fix the facts in ink, I fear I will begin to doubt their reality, or worse, I will begin to believe the polite lies they told me this morning. My name is Elias Thorne, and I...
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