The Golden Circuit
The debt on Văn Long’s father’s back was heavier than the rifle he carried, a sum that had grown teeth and gnawed through the pension he had earned over twelve years of standing watch. He wrote the first entry in the ledger on a Tuesday, the ink smearing in the damp air of the outpost, the paper sticky under his fingers. The cold spot had arrived three days prior, a patch of air that felt like...
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