The Golden Master
The shattering of the glass happened in the middle of the night, a sound so violent and singular that it seemed to rip the fabric of the house apart, and when I rushed into the hallway, the air was already thick with the smell of ozone and broken iron, and there, lying in a heap of jagged, iridescent shards on the polished oak floor, was the thing my father had kept in the lead-lined box for...
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