The Golden Cellar
The first thing you notice is the smell, a pungent, sweet rot that clings to the back of your throat like a bad taste, the kind of odor that belongs to things left too long in the sun or too deep in the earth. You are standing at the edge of a ravine, the kind of place where the mapmakers draw dashed lines and shrug, a jagged scar in the side of the Appalachian foothills where the pines grow...
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