The Golden Cellar
The coat was red. It was not a bright red. It was the red of dried blood. It was the red of old brick. It fit me wrong. The sleeves were too long. The shoulders were too broad. I pulled at the fabric. It did not give. I looked up. The room was cold. Stone walls. High windows. Dust motes danced in the light. "You are small," said the man. He stood in the shadows. He was tall. He wore grey. His...
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