The Golden Farce
The dust in the archive room settles like snow on a field no one treads. You know this because you have watched it fall for forty years. You are the Keeper. That is the only title that matters here, in this hollowed-out church on the edge of Ashford, where the walls weep with the damp of centuries and the silence has a texture, thick and heavy as velvet. You do not speak much. Words are...
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