The Golden Cellar
The ledger lay open on the steel table, its spine cracked and pages swollen with damp, a record of debts that could not be paid in currency. You read the figures, the ink blurring as your hand trembled against the cold metal, the vibration traveling up your wrist like a current. It was the third time this week you had forgotten the name of the woman who had died in the winter of 1998, the one...
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