The Golden Visit
The door in the cellar did not lock. It simply ceased to be a barrier. You remembered the weight of the iron key in your pocket, a cold, heavy thing that smelled of rust and your father’s sweat, but the lock had turned itself before you could reach it. This was the first time the world had shown you its teeth. You stood in the corridor of the old manor, the air thick with the scent of damp wool...
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