The Golden Circuit
The ink bleeds into the coarse paper, a dark stain spreading like a bruise, as I struggle to form the letters of my own name, the tremor in my right hand making the quill dance an erratic, desperate dance against the parchment. It is October fourteenth, eighteen hundred and ninety-two, and I am forty-five years old, a border constable whose body is beginning to betray the mind that still burns...
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