The Golden Myth
The gold pocket watch was cold against Elias Thorne’s palm, its tarnished face reflecting the gray sky of the occupied capital. He stood in the mud, his boots sinking with every shift of weight, the leather stiff from the damp that had soaked through his trousers three hours ago. Three men had been shot that morning for asking the same question he was about to ask: where was Margaret. The queue...
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