The Golden Cellar
The dream was not a dream of light, but of a cold, wet earth pressing against the inside of his eyelids. Elias Thorne lay in the narrow bed that had been his for forty years, the wood creaking under the weight of his old bones, while outside the window the rain hammered against the slate of the cottage in the village of Blackwood. It was a night of such profound silence that the only sound was...
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