The Golden Cellar
The air in the cellar does not smell of mold or damp earth, as you might expect from a space so deep beneath the roots of the old oak. Instead, it carries the scent of ozone and crushed violets, a sharp, electric perfume that clings to the back of your throat and refuses to leave. You have lived here for thirty years, or perhaps three centuries; time moves with a sluggish, viscous grace in this...
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