The Golden Myth
The fire started in the cellar. It was a quiet kind of burn. Wet wood. Old paper. The smell of charred oak mixed with the damp, mineral scent of the earth. I stood on the cobblestones. My boots were cold. The night air cut through my coat. It was a heavy wool coat. It had seen better days. It had seen other men. I watched the smoke rise. It curled into the black sky like a question. "Thomas!"...
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