The Golden Myth
The rain hammers the slate roof of the study, a relentless, drumming rhythm that makes your teeth ache, and you stand in the yard with the leather-bound journal clutched against your chest, its spine warm as a living thing. You are twelve years old, Elias, and you want only to copy the final page, the one with the golden script that your father says is the cure for the wasting cough that is...
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