The Wistful Atlas
The soup was thick. It sat in the clay bowl, a dark, steaming mass of root vegetables and bone marrow, the surface broken only by the occasional bubble of escaping heat. I stared at it. The steam rose in slow, curling ribbons, dancing in the draft from the open window. Outside, the factory chimneys belched their grey smoke into the twilight sky, a constant, rhythmic exhalation that marked the...
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