The Golden Scar
You have the compass, Elias. Do not let them take it. The words of your wife, Margaret, still hang in the air of the empty kitchen, sharp as the scent of the lemon polish you used to scrub the linoleum floors until your knuckles bled. It has been three days since she left for the infirmary, and the silence in the house has grown so thick you can hear the dust settling on the wallpaper, a fine,...
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