The Golden Crossing

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2026-08-23 05:00:13 -

The intake form lay on the steel table, the ink still wet, smelling of iron and stale coffee. I signed my name, Margaret Holloway, in the designated box, the pen scratching a thin, white line against the cheap paper. Outside the window of the basement office, the sky was the color of a bruise, heavy and swollen with rain that refused to fall. I am thirty-two, a junior archivist at St. Jude’s...

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