The Distant Threshold
The smell of burnt sugar is the first thing that hits you, a cloying, sweet rot that coats the back of your throat and refuses to let go, sitting there in the dark of the cellar where the air is thick enough to chew, and you are waiting, you are always waiting, for the door to open and for the weight of his expectation to crash down upon your shoulders like a wet wool blanket. You are a baker,...
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