The Golden Circuit

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2026-08-23 08:30:44 -

14 October 1912 The ink is wet and the candle is low, but my hand is steady enough to record the date, which is the only thing that matters now. My daughter, Clara, lies in the cot in the corner, her breathing a shallow rattle that sounds like sand dragged across dry stone. She is twelve, though the fever has stolen three years from her face, leaving her gaunt and strange, a child of the air...

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