The Golden Song
The sound is not loud, but it is absolute, a thin, high-pitched tear that splits the air of the quiet study like a needle piercing silk. You freeze, your hand still suspended in the air, the brass tuning fork trembling faintly between your fingers, and you look down at the glass on the desk. It is a beautiful thing, a delicate orb of blown crystal filled with a liquid that seems to hold the...
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