The Golden Song
The envelope was thick, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of the lavender soap my mother used to buy at the corner grocer before the war closed it down. I held it in my hands, the paper soft and yielding under my thumbs, while the radiator in the corner ticked and clanked, a rhythmic metal heartbeat that filled the silence of my office at the Ministry of Cultural Heritage. It was October 1998,...
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