The Weight of a Crumb
Ray lived in a town where the sky was the color of a bruised plum and the air tasted of sulfur and wet asphalt. It was a place of repetitive motions—the whistle of the factory at 6 AM, the rhythmic thud of the presses, the slow crawl of the commute home. Ray was a man of habits. He ate the same sandwich every day, slept in the same faded blue sheets, and spoke only when necessary. He didn't...
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