The Golden Cellar
The wine in the glass is the color of a bruise that has finally begun to heal, a deep, arterial violet that promises both warmth and the slow, inevitable cold of winter, and you sit at the far end of the long oak table where the chandeliers hang like frozen stars, their crystal prisms catching the light of a hundred tallow candles and scattering it into a thousand trembling, golden shards that...
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