The Golden Scar
The chisel slipped, and Carl Tillman felt the cold bite of the steel against the knuckle, a pain that traveled up the arm and settled in the hollow of his chest with a weight like wet sand. He did not pull his hand away; he let the blood bead on the workbench, mixing with the gold leaf he had been applying to the inside of the casket, a small, dark stain in the shimmering expanse. Outside, the...
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