The Golden Crossing
The ledger on the desk of Elias Thorne, forty-two, listed three hundred and twelve hours of unpaid overtime, a sum that weighed on his mind like wet wool, a burden he had carried since the bridge collapsed in the rain of ninety-eight, a weight that had no end in sight. He sat in the dim light of his office, the air thick with the scent of damp paper and the metallic tang of old rust, counting...
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