The Golden Master

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 03:00:21 -

The Golden Master

The dream was of hands. My hands. They were not mine. They were large. Brown. Calloused like tree bark. They held a bowl of gold. The gold was liquid. It spilled over my knuckles. It ran down my wrists. It pooled on the stone floor. I did not flinch. I drank it. The taste was iron. The taste was salt. The taste was old blood. I woke. The room was cold. The walls were stone. The ceiling was...

0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews