The Golden Cellar
The jar sat on the high shelf, behind a row of dusty tinctures and forgotten ledgers, and I had not touched it in three days. It was a simple thing, made of thick, amber glass, sealed with wax that had cracked long ago, but it held the only thing in this damp, stone-walled cellar that I still recognized as mine. It was the last of the honey I had made before the sickness took the bees, and...
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