The Golden Cellar
The bread was still warm when you found it, sitting on the stone table in the cellar, its crust blistered and dark as old leather. You did not eat it. You could not. The smell of yeast and char hung in the damp air, a scent that belonged to a life you had abandoned three years ago, back in the village where the rivers ran clear and the winters were merely cold, not hungry. Now, the air here was...
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