The Distant Temple
The iron-bound chest sat in your hands, cold and heavy, its surface scarred by a single, jagged dent from a previous fall. You held it with the white-knuckled grip of a man who knows that if he lets go, he will lose not just the object, but the memory of the woman who had carved the initials into its lid with a penknife on a rainy Tuesday in 1918. The air in the breached courtyard tasted of wet...
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