The Faded Bouquet
The bread was stale. It had been so for three days. "Is it gone?" asked the Captain. His voice was a dry rasp, stripped of its former command. "It is gone," said the woman. She did not look up. Her hands moved with mechanical precision, folding the coarse linen cloth. "We have no more." The room was dim. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick as spilled ink. The air tasted of damp stone and...
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