The Golden Cellar
The air in the cellar tasted of wet stone and old blood. It was thick. It clung to my throat. I stood still. My hands shook. Not from cold. From fear. Or maybe from relief. I could not tell the difference anymore. Thomas was waiting for me. He sat on a overturned bucket. His back was to the stairs. He wore his grey wool coat. The one that smelled of pipe smoke and rain. He did not turn around....
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