The Golden Cellar
You hold the bone. It is warm. It is yellowed. It fits your palm like a secret kept for too long. The cellar is dark. You are alone. The air smells of damp earth and old iron. You turn the bone over. It is smooth. The edges are worn. This is your hand. No, it is a femur. A child’s femur. It is small. It is light. You do not know whose it is. You do not care. It is yours now. The tower stands...
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