The Golden Myth
The letter sat on the desk, the ink still wet, a dark smear against the cream stationery. I had written it to my father, or rather, to the estate administration that had swallowed him whole, demanding the return of the gold clock. It was a small thing, no larger than a hatbox, but it was the only thing in the world that belonged to me, a tangible anchor in the drifting sea of my displacement. I...
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