The Golden Cellar
The cellar door groans under the weight of your hands, a sound like a bone snapping deep within the earth, and you stand there, drenched in the cold mist that seeps from the soil, holding the clay pot with its jagged, chipped rim that used to be gold before the years of service wore the luster down to a dull, matte brown. It is heavy, heavier than it has a right to be, and your shoulders ache...
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