The Golden Scar
The light in the darkroom had a quality that made the paper look like wet skin, a red glow that seeped into the pores of my hands. I remember the exact moment the gold ink began to bleed from the scar on my neck, staining the official ledger of the Wool Graders with a hue that no dye in the city could match. It was a Tuesday, the fog so thick that the bell buoy in the harbor rang like a funeral...
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