The Golden Farce
The letter was thin, the paper brittle as old skin, and the ink had faded to the color of dried blood. You held it against the grey wool of your sleeve, watching the fibers snag on the rough edges of the parchment. It was from your brother, Julian, dated three years ago, the last word he ever wrote before the silence took him. You had carried it for a thousand miles, folded and unfolded until...
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