The Golden Scar
The notification slip, printed on the thin, flimsy stock that smelled of sulfur and state-issued ink, lay flat on the workbench, its corners curling slightly in the humid air of the loom room. You read it twice, the first time to confirm the date, the second to ensure the name was not a typo, and then you folded it into a tight square and slipped it into the deep pocket of your apron, where it...
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