The Golden Myth
The final page of the pension application lay flat on the kitchen table, its edges curling slightly in the damp air. I held the pen, the ink dry, and looked at the line where I was to sign my name, certifying the accuracy of my service record. My hand did not move. Through the floorboards beneath my feet, a faint, rhythmic pulse thrummed against the soles of my boots, a cold heat that felt less...
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