The Golden Cellar
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey curtain that blurred the boundaries between the wet cobblestones of the courtyard and the dark, iron-banded doors of the Ministry, and it was in this suspended silence, this heavy, industrial dampness that seemed to seep into the marrow of my bones, that I first heard the voice of my father, not as a memory, but as a physical...
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