The Golden Suspect
Who keeps the records when the ink bleeds? I asked myself this question while standing in the basement of the textile mill, the dampness rising off the stone floor like a breath I could not see. The air smelled of wet chalk and old paper, a scent that had settled into my clothes over twenty years of service, but today it felt sharper, biting at the back of my throat. I was thirty-four, a clerk...
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