The Golden Quest
The silver spoon sat in the center of the mahogany table, its bowl dented and worn smooth by a decade of clumsy hands, catching the gaslight in a way that seemed to mock the elegance of the room where I stood, trembling, with my mother’s cold fingers still clinging to my wrist as if she were already part of the furniture, part of the dust, part of the inescapable gravity that held us all to the...
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