The soup was cold. It sat on the counter, a gray pool of lentils and turnips, sweating in the heat of the city. I looked at it. I did not eat. I had been fighting for three days. Not with fists. With words. With the rigid, brittle structure of my own silence. My name is Elias. I am a soldier. My uniform is a gray suit. My weapon is a spoon.
My father died last week. He left me a jar of honey....
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