The Golden Myth
Act I I remember the cold in the cellar more than the heat of the forge, the damp rising through the straw pallets where I slept, turning the air into a physical weight that pressed against my lungs. It was 1912, and the Fens were melting, the meltwater creeping into the foundations of the barracks at ninety-six of Gallows Corner, seeping under the doorframes and pooling in the cracks of the...
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