The Golden Cellar
The water tasted of metal, a thin, cold ribbon of copper that Elias Thorne could not wash away from the back of his tongue, a sensation that had begun three days prior and now sat in his throat like a stone. He stood in the damp, soot-choked cellar of the municipal pumping station, his flashlight beam cutting through the heavy air to illuminate the rusted iron pipes that ran along the ceiling,...
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