The Golden Downtown
The letter lay on the wet stone of the courtyard, its edges curling like dead leaves, and I held it with hands that had not stopped shaking since I stepped out of the Ministry’s heavy oak doors. It was a form, Form 14-B, stamped in red ink that seemed to pulse against the gray paper, denying my claim for the service pension. The rain had turned the cobblestones into a mirror, reflecting the...
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