They laid their gold
on a tray the color of midnight,
fingers ringed in stones
that caught the candlelight like captive suns.
Outside,
a boy with a patched sleeve
watched frost stitch lace
across the bakery window.
His breath bloomed and vanished,
a ghost repeating itself.
The men inside
spoke of progress —
steel rivers,
glass towers that drink the clouds,
oceans combed for oil.
A gull’s cry cut through...
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