The Golden Myth
The heavy oak door of the estate did not creak; it groaned, a low, tectonic shift that vibrated through the soles of my boots and settled deep in the marrow of my knees, a sound that had become the baseline frequency of my existence over the last six months. I stood in the foyer, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and decay, holding the brass key that had been entrusted to me with a...
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