The Golden Quest
The mud clings to your boots with a tenacity that feels personal, as if the earth itself resents your passage. You are walking toward the house. The house is yours, though you have not entered it in three years. The air is thin here, sharp with the scent of pine resin and rot. You carry a satchel. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, is a jar. It is heavy. It is warm. It hums against your hip like a...
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