The Golden Myth
The ink on the pen nib was drying, a thick, brown crust that resisted the flow, and you scraped it against the edge of the blotter with the flat of your thumb, feeling the grit of dried pigment under your skin as you stared at the spreadsheet that Vane had left on your desk at four o’clock that afternoon, a task that was impossible to complete by the standard five-fifteen, yet one that...
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