The Golden Myth
The hive is dying. You can hear it. Not the buzz of life, but the dry rattle of wood against wood. A hollow sound. It sits on the sill of your kitchen window. A box of pine and wax. Inside, thousands of wings beat against the dark. They are angry. They are confused. You are the one who built them. You are the one who fed them. Now you are the one who must destroy them. You wear your apron. It...
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