THE GOLDEN ROOM

BACK

The room glows with a sickly, antique gold, not warm sunlight but the color of tarnished treasure seen through a veil. Tall, cracked mirrors line the walls, their gilded frames crawling with filigree that seems to shift when you don't look directly at it. A high, domed ceiling is painted with a faded mural of an opulent harvest; the paint peels in curling, pale flakes that float down and never quite touch the floor. Heavy drapes of golden damask hang motionless, though the air tastes of cold metal and old coins. Shadows pool into corners where the gilt seems to deepen into something like shadowed blood. Somewhere beyond the doors there is the faint, patient creak of a slow hinge or a heartbeat.

At the room's center stands a narrow, lacquered table the color of aged brass. Resting on it, as if placed and forgotten for generations, are two objects that catch the dim light and reflect it back in small, uncanny pulses: a golden ring and a small, worn bag spilling a few dull, heavy coins. The ring's surface is etched with an unreadable script; when you try to focus on the letters they bleed like ink into the metal. The coins are warm to the touch despite the chill, and each bears the faint impression of a face that seems different each time you glance.