The Golden Cellar
"You're late," I said. The words felt small in the heavy air of the basement. Elias didn’t answer. He stood by the concrete stairs, his shadow stretching long and thin across the damp floor. He was wearing his grey suit. It was the same suit he wore to the faculty meetings. It was the suit he wore when he taught us how to parse the syntax of history. But today, the fabric looked tired. It...
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