The Golden Song
The letter was on the desk when I woke, the ink still wet in the corners. I read it twice, the paper thin and brittle, and then I folded it into a square and put it in my pocket. The flat was cold. It had been cold for three days since the heating broke, and the draft from the window frame cut across the floorboards like a wire. I sat up in the chair and reached into my waistcoat. The gold...
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