The Golden Cellar
The trowel in your hand is cold, the steel biting into the calluses of your palm, a familiar ache that signals the start of another day of labor. You are standing in the yard of the Vane estate in 1912, the industrial hum of the nearby mills a constant drone beneath the wind, and you are writing to your sister, Elara, though you know, with a dread that settles in your stomach like cold iron,...
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