The Golden Crossing
The iron pick struck the soil with a dull, rhythmic thud, the vibration traveling up the wooden handle and settling deep in my wrist, a familiar ache that spoke of years spent breaking ground rather than holding it. I was thirty-four years old, a Sergeant in the Royal Constabulary, and I had been ordered to Oakhaven to enforce a quarantine on the town’s orchard, a task that smelled of rot and...
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