The Golden Scar
Act I My fingers bleed black ink as I press the nib to the vellum, the wet stain spreading across the grain like a bruise under skin. I am transcribing Torvald’s final confession, the last entry in his ledger of sins, and the salt-pan wind outside rattles the shutters of the nursery-turned-storage room where I work. The light is low, slanting through the reeds that braid the delta outside our...
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