The Golden Cellar
The rain drummed a relentless rhythm against the slate roof. It was a cold, gray Tuesday in November. The air smelled of wet wool and diesel. Elias stood by the window. He watched the street below. The yellow cabs blurred into streaks of light. He held his coat in his hands. The fabric was thick. It was heavy. It had protected him for twenty years. It had also trapped him. He turned to face the...
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