The Golden Myth
The gold leaf on the seal had been cracking since Tuesday, a fine web of fractures that whispered my name whenever the wind shifted in the drafty office. I am Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, and I have spent thirty of those years wearing a badge that now feels too heavy for my trembling hands. I want only to secure my pension and retire before the palsy takes my signature, but the seal on my...
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