The Golden Song
The ledger showed a deficit of forty-two pounds, a sum that weighed heavier than the gold in my pocket. I counted the hours, one by one, as I held the music box in my hands, feeling the cold metal bite into my skin. It was 1924, and I was thirty-two years old, a watchmaker in a town that preferred its men to be sturdy and silent, not trembling and sensitive. Clara had died three years prior,...
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