The Golden Song
The ledger on the table holds nine entries for the month, each one a small red wound in the black ink. You count them twice, then a third time, your fingers stiff from the cold that seeps through the floorboards of your cottage. The rib on your left side throbs in time with the wind, a dull, persistent hammering that reminds you of the night shift, of the scuffle in the alley, of the weight of...
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