The Golden Cellar
The bread is cold, and it knows it, and you know that it knows, and the knowing is a thing that sits in the pit of your stomach like a stone that has been dropped into a well of black water, echoing up from the depths of a time that should not exist, a time when the walls of the city were not made of brick and mortar but of bone and breath, and you are standing in the cellar because you have no...
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