The Golden Cellar
The cellar door groans. You pull. It holds. The wood is dark. Wet. It smells of rot and old rain. You are not the first to stand here. You are not the last. The key is heavy in your hand. It is iron. It is cold. It bites your palm. Outside, the house is quiet. The garden sleeps under a thin sheet of frost. The neighbors have left. They are gone. They did not say goodbye. They packed their...
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