The Pale Garden
The bread was stale. It was always stale. Mara cut a slice. The crust crumbled. It tasted like chalk and old dust. She chewed. She swallowed. "Good?" The voice came from the shadows. She looked up. A man stood by the window. He wore a coat that had seen better centuries. His face was pale. Too pale. Like paper left in the rain. "It is bread," Mara said. "Is it?" "Yes." "Eat." She ate. The man...
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