The Golden Farce
The bread was bad. It was the first thing I noticed, not the smell of the smoke or the way the glass in the east window had shattered into a constellation of diamond shards on the floor, but the taste of the stale, rye loaf sitting on the counter in my laboratory. It tasted of iron and old pennies, a metallic tang that coated the tongue and refused to be washed away. I stood there, holding the...
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