The Golden Cellar
My hands were already deep in the mud of the klong when the boat scraped against the hull, a sound like a bone snapping under a boot. I pulled the silt from the cellar wall, my fingers black and slick, knowing the deed was waiting for me in that dark, wet space. The water was freezing, a January thaw that tricked the orchards into blooming too early, and the cold bit into my knuckles as I...
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