The Wistful Skyline
The bread was still warm when Margaret pulled it from the stone hearth, the crust splitting with a sound like a dry twig snapping underfoot, and the smell of yeast and woodsmoke filled the small, circular room, thick and heavy, pressing against her lungs in a way that felt less like nourishment and more like a suffocating embrace, a physical weight that she had come to associate with the only...
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