The Faded Shield
Act I I remember the weight of the brass key in my palm, cold and heavy as a stone, even now, years later. It was the only thing I kept from the telegraph office, a relic of a time when words had mass. I was thirty-two, a clerk in the harbor custom house, and I wanted the signature on the warehouse expansion by Friday. What stood against him was not a man, but a number. A line in the audit...
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