The Golden Circuit
The ink is wet and the candle is low. I write this to you, Thomas, because I can say no more to the living. The hum is louder today. It sits in the back of my teeth, a vibration that makes the gold dust settle on the floor in perfect, spiraling patterns. We have worked for three years on this, you and I, but only I hear the song of the metal. The village calls it a cure for the plague, but the...
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