The Golden Scar
What is the price of a still heart? The cellar under the Nogueira house smelled of damp slate and old tobacco, a pungent, rotting sweetness that coated the back of Manuel Nogueira’s throat. He sat on the third step, where the water from the November thaw had risen to his ankles, the cold biting through his wool socks. Above him, the floorboards groaned with the weight of the party, the low...
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