The Golden Cellar
The cellar door is heavy, iron-banded oak that groans under the weight of your hands, a sound like a throat clearing before a long, difficult confession. You are standing in the dark, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting fruit, and you cannot remember how you came to be here, nor why the key is warm in your pocket, humming with a heat that has nothing to do with the winter...
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