The Golden Song
Honey is not a cure; it is a preservative for the soul, a fact I learned too late. I woke from the dream where the golden liquid turned to ash on my tongue, the taste metallic and cold, a residue that lingered like a bad omen. My grandfather, Yorgos, lay in the upper room, his cough a dry, rattling sound that shook the plaster from the walls. I wanted to stop the decay, to conquer the slow...
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