The Golden Crossing
The gold casing of the pocket watch is split down the middle, the hairline fracture running through the engraved crest like a dry riverbed in summer. You hold it in your left hand, the metal cold and slick with the damp that has soaked through your wool uniform, while your right hand grips the strap of your service revolver, the leather creaking under the tension of your knuckles. The clock...
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