The Golden Echoes
I am sitting on a bench in a park that smells of wet asphalt and diesel, looking back at the day I broke the golden hearing aid and my own life. The sun is setting, a long, bruised dusk that stretches over the hillsides of Nova Scotia, where the polytunnels glare like white eyes in the dark. I remember the weight of the gold in my pocket, heavy as a sin I had carried for twenty years, and the...
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