The Distant Summer

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2026-08-17 11:41:22 -

The bread had begun to rot before the walls did. That is how I remember it. Not by the date, nor by the season, but by the sour, sweet smell of decay that clung to the rye loaves stacked on the high shelf of the watchtower. We were three men in a stone throat, suspended above the valley where the mist used to gather like spilled milk. My name is Elias Thorne, and I was a man who believed in the...

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