The Golden Visit
You stand at the threshold of the library, the door swinging on its heavy iron hinges with a groan that sounds like a bone breaking. The air inside is thick, dust-choked, and smells of wet paper and old wax. It is not a library in the sense of a public hall. It is a cellar, a vault, a tomb of ink. You are a scholar. Or you believe you are. The distinction matters less here than the weight of...
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