The Golden Ritual
The dust in the attic is thick. It coats your tongue. It tastes of iron and old paper. You are the new custodian. Your uniform is stiff. The brass buttons are cold against your chest. You stand in the center of the room. The house is silent. The wind rattles the window panes. They are cracked. The glass is dirty. You see your own face in the reflection. It is pale. Your eyes are wide. You are...
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