The Golden Oath
The dream is always the same, a suffocating close-up of two hands, yellowed and spotted with the black veins of old disease, pressing flat against a sheet of cold lead and glass, the fingers trembling so violently that the gold leaf flakes off in slow, golden rain, and you wake with the taste of metal in your mouth, the smell of ozone and decay clinging to the linings of your nose, and you sit...
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