The Distant Summer
The bread was not bread, and I knew this with the certainty of a stone settling into the riverbed, a heavy, cold truth that did not require speech to be understood, only the slow, grinding acceptance of its weight against the soul. We sat in the cellar of the mill, the air thick with the scent of damp straw and the metallic tang of old blood, and my husband, Elias, looked at me with eyes that...
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