The Golden Cellar
The bone is in your hand. It is cold. It is heavy. You know what it is before you look at it. A metacarpal. Broken. Split clean down the middle. You hold it up to the dim light of the cellar, and the dust motes dance around the fracture like a funeral procession. You are a man who has held many things. Weapons. Files. The hands of the dying. But this bone is different. It is yours. Or it...
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