The Golden Crossing
The dream was always the same, a shimmering span of gold arcing over a void so deep it swallowed sound. Elias Thorne woke with his hand clamped over his chest, the arrhythmia thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was forty-five, though the mirror in the outpost washroom suggested a man nearing fifty, his face carved by twenty years of service in the mist-shrouded valley of...
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