The Golden Echoes
You are standing in the doorway of your own house, but the house is not made of wood and stone. It is made of your hands. They are the walls. They are the floor. They are the ceiling pressing down on your skull with the weight of a century. Your fingers interlock, knuckles white, forming the archway where the kitchen should be. Your palms are the hearth, warm and calloused, holding the fire...
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