The Golden Myth
You count the vials. One, two, three. The glass is thin, the liquid inside a black so deep it looks like a hole in the air. You have been counting them for an hour, your fingers trembling as they brush the necks of the bottles. The tremor is a new thing, a fine vibration in the right hand that makes the quill shiver when you try to hold it steady. It is a small betrayal, this body failing you...
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