The Wistful Letter
The bread is stale. You know this not by the taste, which is too dry to register on your tongue, but by the texture of the crust under your fingernails. It flakes away like dead skin, brittle and grey, offering no resistance to the pressure of your thumb. You have been eating this loaf for three days. It is the only thing left in the pantry of the stone house where you have been locked for...
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