The Golden Echoes
The iron gear bit into my palm, cold and heavy as a dead man’s head, while I pressed my shoulder against the oak door of the central hall. My uniform, stiff with sweat and grime, felt less like cloth and more like a second skin, tight against my ribs. I was thirty years old, a Sergeant in the Municipal Constabulary, and I had spent the last decade enforcing the new industrial order, believing...
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