The Golden Scar
"Did you think the gold would stay?" The voice belonged to no one, or perhaps to everyone, a low hum that vibrated in the marrow of my teeth. I stood in the kitchen of our house in the grey belt of the district, the linoleum cold through the soles of my boots. The silence was heavy, broken only by the tick of the clock and the wet, rhythmic scraping of my own fingernails against the counter. I...
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