The Golden Scar
March 12, 1948. The ink is still wet on the final page of the ledger when I hear the carriage wheels grinding against the cobblestones outside, a sound like teeth cracking on gravel. Silas is leaving. I stand at the window, watching him lift his valise into the cab, his back hunched against the damp chill that has settled into the bones of Oakhaven. He does not look up. He never does. I have...
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