The Golden Cellar
The basement of the Whitmore Archival Center did not smell of old paper, as one might expect, but of wet earth and the faint, metallic tang of copper pennies left in the rain. I sat in the corner, my legs tucked beneath me, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light that pierced the gloom from a high, barred window. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Thursday; time had begun to pool...
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