The Golden Ritual
The mallet bit into the stem of the vine with a wet, fibrous crack that sounded too much like a bone breaking. You wiped the dark sap from your knuckles onto your canvas trousers, the fabric already stiff with the dust of forty years of municipal service. The air in the East Wing of the Municipal Archives smelled of ozone and rotting paper, a thick, cloying scent that coated the back of your...
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