The Golden Suspect
The bread broke. It did not tear. It did not crumble. It shattered. Like glass. Like bone. The smell was sweet. Rye and honey. And rot. Thomas stood in the kitchen. The floor was wet. Not with water. With blood. It was black. It was thick. It pooled around his boots. He did not move. He could not move. The plate was empty. The knife was still. The silence was loud. His daughter, Elara, was...
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