The Golden Echoes
Chapter One I am writing this because the ink is still wet and the fear has not yet settled into the bone, and because if I do not put these words to the page, I am afraid I will forget the shape of my own hands. The wind outside is a low, grinding sound, like a millstone turning in its sleep, and it presses against the windowpanes of the dark tent where I sit, the only light coming from the...
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