The Golden Downtown
The air in the cellar did not smell of damp earth, as one might expect from a space buried so deep beneath the cobblestones of the old market square, but rather of hot iron, sulfur, and the distinct, cloying sweetness of over-ripe plums, a scent that clung to the back of your throat like a secret too large for the mouth to hold. You were not a man of the earth, you were a man of the ledger, a...
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