The Golden Myth
The fire did not start with a spark. It started with a silence. You were sitting on the floor of the pantry, back against the cold stone, watching the smoke curl through the keyhole. The air tasted of ash and old wool. Your little brother, Thomas, was asleep in the next room, his breathing a soft rhythm against the wall. You could hear him. You could always hear him. He was the anchor, the...
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