The Golden Visit
The brass key in my pocket weighs four ounces and two grams, a precise mass I have measured against the counterweight of the signal lever it controls, a weight that has worn the leather of my palm into a topography of ridges and valleys that no longer matches the skin of a man who sleeps well. It is 1912, and the air in the depot office smells of stale coal dust and the sharp, metallic tang of...
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