The Golden Cellar
The cold started in the soles of his shoes. Elias Thorne pressed the tip of his brush against the gold leaf of the chalice, his hand steady, his breath shallow. The vault was silent except for the hum of the HVAC system and the faint, wet sound of the draft moving through the ventilation shafts. He had been an archivist for twelve years, long enough to know that silence in a museum was not...
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