The Golden Cellar
I woke in the cellar of my own memory, the air thick with the scent of damp brick and old pennies, a metallic taste coating the back of my throat that seemed to echo the gold leaf peeling from the ceiling above. It was not a dream in the way a child dreams, soft and formless, but a recollection so sharp it cut, a replay of the night I surrendered the ledger, the night the institution swallowed...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews