The Golden Cellar
The fog had settled into the hollows of the valley like a damp wool blanket, suffocating the ironworks and the soot-blackened chimneys that punctured the grey sky of Ashworth Mill, and I stood at the threshold of the cellar door, my fingers trembling not from the cold that bit at my knuckles but from the terrible, humming weight of the knowledge that had begun to rot inside my chest like a...
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