The Golden Ritual
The heavy brass clasp on my father’s coat was a thing of terrible, unyielding weight, a cold circle of metal that sat against the wool like a second heartbeat, pulsing with a silence so profound it seemed to suck the air from the room and hold it captive in the dark pockets of our history, where it fermented into something sour and sharp, something that tasted of iron and old blood, and I...
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