The Golden Farce
The paper was thin, translucent enough that the grain of the wooden table beneath showed through like a bruise, and the ink had not quite dried. You held the pen, the nib scratching a sound like a mouse running across dry floorboards, and looked at the signature line. It was a simple form, a transfer of liability, but the weight of it sat in your hand like a stone wrapped in silk. The light in...
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