The Golden Oath
Dimitra Theodorou sat in the parlor, her hands trembling around the ledger, the humidity swelling the doorframe until the wood groaned like a dying man. It was 1912, or perhaps 1914, the years blurred by the weight of the unopened parcel on the customs desk, a box she had refused to open for three days. The golden stain was on her sleeve. It pulsed, a warm, wet light that smelled of iron and...
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