The Distant Summer
The penny lies flat on the rough, splintered wood of the workbench, its surface dulled by a film of fine black dust that has settled over the last three hours. You run your thumb over the edge, feeling the grooves of the milled rim, a small, cold coin that holds the weight of your entire existence. Outside, the wind howls against the slate roof of the cottage, a low, mournful sound that...
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