The Golden Cellar
In the center of the table, Elias Thorne held a single, bruised grape, its skin taut and purple-black, trembling slightly under the weight of his thumb as he examined the tiny, white scar where the stem had been torn away. Around him, the cellar of Thorne & Sons Winery churned with the heat of bodies and the stench of fermenting must, a thick, yeasty fog that clung to the wool of his suit and...
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