The Golden Maze
The invoice lay on the workbench, its edges curling slightly in the humid air. It was a standard form, black ink on cheap paper, detailing the final payment for the restoration of the great hall clock. I picked it up. My fingers were stained with brass dust and old grease, a permanent map of my trade. I looked at the total. It was not enough. It was never enough. I needed the signature. I...
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