The Golden Cellar
The ledger lay open on the oak table, its spine cracked from years of service, and I dipped the quill into the inkwell to record the date of my master’s death, a task that felt less like bookkeeping and more like an autopsy performed on my own soul. The cellar below us was breathing, a slow, rhythmic expansion and contraction of the stone walls that I had learned to interpret as the pulse of...
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