The Golden Song
The letter lay on the scarred oak table, the ink still wet where Eamon had scrawled his signature, a jagged line that cut through the formal cursive of the Highland Authority’s demand for the tuning fork. It was a simple document, a list of debts and a final notice, but the weight of the paper seemed to press down on the air in the small stone cottage, silencing the tick of the mantel clock and...
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