The Pale Tale
You wake with flour in your hair. It is grey. It is thick. You taste it. Chalk. Dust. You are in the cellar. The air is cold. It bites your lungs. You are Thomas. You are a baker. You are poor. The city is above you. It is a beast. It breathes stone and smoke. It does not care for you. You stand. Your knees crack. You look at the sacks. They are empty. The grain is gone. The debt remains. The...
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