The Golden Cellar
The lock clicks. It is a heavy, industrial sound, like a bone setting in a joint that has been broken and mended too many times. "Is it done, Elias?" I do not turn around. My back is pressed against the cold steel of the vault door, the metal so chill it bites through the thin cotton of my shirt. The air in here is stale, recycled, tasting of ozone and old dust. "Almost," I say. My voice sounds...
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