The Golden Master
The ink on the letter was still wet, a dark smear against the cheap paper, and my thumb pressed into the corner to keep it from curling in the damp air. It was November, 1912, and the city limits were marked by a rusted iron post that had seen better decades. I held the dismissal from the Municipal Works, a document that stripped my name from the rolls of the city’s builders. Behind me, the...
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