The Golden Cellar
Did you ever wonder what a lie feels like when it has weight? It feels like wet plaster, heavy and cold against the skin, drying into a shell that cracks when you try to breathe. I am Luigi Vitale, and for twelve years I have kept the subterranean archives beneath the distillery, a job that smells of damp stone and old ink, a job that is now eating me alive. The institution, a rigid bureaucracy...
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