The key drops with a thud on the cold floor. Beads of sweat on her forehead glisten in the sun.

She has been warned against touching the ancient treasure. Her ancestors guard it in form of snakes and scorpions, and woe begone to anyone who goes near … or so the locals say.

There is nothing inside the copper urns. The one who spread the stories has disappeared with the wealth.


7 thoughts on “Folklore

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