The Golden Crossing
The chandeliers swung, not from wind, but from the deep, grinding shift of the earth beneath the oak floorboards. “Elias,” my father’s voice cut through the clatter of silverware, sharp as a knife striking a plate. “Elias, look at your plate. You are eating with your eyes closed.” I opened them. The hall was a blaze of candlelight and roasted pheasant, a feast for thirty, yet the air was thick...
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