The Golden Circuit
Elias, you are a fool, and this house is a grave, and you have chosen to lie in it. October 14, 1923. The light in the cellar is the color of old bruises, a dim, shifting amber that seems to pulse in time with the settling of the beams above. I write this by the glow of a single kerosene lamp, the flame steady against the draft that seeps through the cracks in the foundation, a cold wind that...
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