The Golden Cellar
The cellar had been cold for three days, and the frost had begun to creep up the stone walls like a slow, white tide, settling into the cracks with a silence that felt heavier than the snow piling against the shutters of the manor above. Thomas Bradshaw sat on a crate of old, rotting casks, his back against the damp stone, his hands resting on his knees, fingers stiff and numb from the...
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