The Golden Downtown
The letter was thin, almost translucent, the kind of paper that tears if you breathe on it too hard. Elias Thorne held it up against the gray light of the border gate, his thumb pressing the corner flat against the wet mud. It was a denial. A formal, polite, bureaucratic refusal to process his pension claim, citing a "clerical discrepancy in residency duration." He folded it back into his coat...
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