The Golden Cellar
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey, suspended shroud that soaked into the wool of Arthur Pendelton’s coat and turned the mud of the highway into a viscous, sucking trap for his boots. He had been walking for three days, or perhaps four, the days having blurred into a single, continuous smear of wetness and the rhythmic, painful throb of the tumor in his chest that the...
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