The Golden Ritual
The kettle is screaming again, a thin, reedy whine that cuts through the heavy, dust-choked air of the kitchen, and you are standing by the sink with your hands submerged in the suds, scrubbing the same porcelain plate over and over, the circular motion becoming a ritual, a penance, a way to grind down the seconds until they dissolve into nothing, while the smell of damp wool and old paper...
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