The Golden Ritual
The train rattled through the grey, rain-slicked suburbs of London, a metallic groan that seemed to vibrate in my teeth, and I sat there with a leather-bound book in my lap, its cover worn to a soft, malleable velvet by decades of use, a thing that felt less like an object and more like a living skin that I had peeled from some forgotten, sacred ritual. I am not a man who prides himself on his...
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