The Golden Song
The brush in your hand trembles, a fine, high-frequency vibration that you have learned to mistake for your own nervousness, though it is actually the weight of the vellum pressing against the table’s edge, resisting the transfer of ink from the nib to the skin of the page. You are Elias, thirty-two, and you are three weeks into a job that was meant to be a clerical pause in your life, a quiet...
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