The Golden Myth
The zip of the duffel bag snapped shut with a violence that seemed disproportionate to the silence of the office, sealing Elias Thorne’s twenty-two years of service into a canvas pouch that smelled of stale coffee and gun oil. He stood before the filing cabinet, his hands trembling not from age but from the specific, grinding exhaustion of a man who has run out of things to say to the people...
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