The Golden Ritual
The brass lettering on the shop door, which had once gleamed with the arrogant confidence of a man who believed he owned the very air he breathed, was now rubbed down to a dull, ghostly smear, and you stood before it with your hands shoved deep into the pockets of a coat that had seen better decades, listening to the wind whistle through the broken pane of the window above, a sound that sounded...
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