The Golden Maze
Vera Zaytsev remembered the weight of the iron before the pain of the cut, a memory that felt less like a recollection and more like a bruise still forming under the skin of her thirty-two years, a wound that had not yet decided whether to bleed or to scar over in the cold air of the provincial town. She stood now in the rain-slicked streets, her fingers raw and red against the wet iron of the...
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