The Golden Cellar
The date is the fourteenth of November, 1912, and I am writing this by the light of a kerosene lamp that sputters every time the wind shifts against the windowpane. My hands are shaking, not from the cold, which is a bitter, wet thing that seeps through the walls of our small room, but from the effort of holding the pen steady. I coughed again just now, a wet, rattling sound that seemed to tear...
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