The Golden Scar
The requisition form lay on the desk, its paper brittle and yellowed, waiting for your signature to seal the winter ration allocation. You held the pen, the ink cold and thick, watching the droplet swell at the nib before it touched the line that would condemn you to another month of silence. The air in the archive was dry, tasting of dust and the faint, cloying sweetness of the Golden Salve...
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