The Golden Maze
The fire started in the root cellar. You know this because the smell hit you first. It was a wet, choking scent, like burning wool and old leaves, mixing with the damp earth that had seeped through the foundation for thirty years. You were standing in the kitchen, holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold. The steam had long since vanished. The house was silent. It was the kind of silence that...
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