The Distant Legend
"Is it bad, then?" you ask, your voice thin and brittle against the damp silence of the kitchen. Eleanor does not look up from the bread she is tearing. Her hands are steady, a stark contrast to the tremor that has taken residence in your own fingers. She pulls a chunk of crust away and offers it to you. You take it. It is dry, dense, tasting of nothing but flour and time. "It is what it is,"...
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