The Golden Cellar
Dad. The word hangs in the air, sharp and bright, cutting through the damp silence of the cellar. You turn from the wall, your hand still pressed against the rough, cold brick, and look up at the staircase. Clara is standing there, her silhouette framed by the gray light of the afternoon. She is not looking at the mortar you just smoothed. She is not looking at the level, or the trowel, or the...
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