The Golden Cellar
The grease on your fingers never quite leaves. It sinks into the whorls of your fingerprints, a dark, oily stain that no amount of lye soap can scrub away. You are standing in the back room of a bakery in a city that feels like it is slowly dissolving into gray mist, and you are holding the scale. It is a brass beast, old enough to have seen wars that are now just footnotes in history books....
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