The Golden Cellar
The fire started in the archives. It was not a grand blaze, not the kind that consumes a city block in a night of roaring orange fury. It was a quiet, wet thing. A spark caught in the dry, rotting paper of the tax records from 1974. It crept. It whispered. By the time the alarm screamed, the heart of the ledger room was already black. Elias stood in the corridor, his shoes slick with the foam...
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