The Distant Whispers
You are standing in the kitchen, and the smell of burnt toast is the only thing that makes sense to you. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of charred bread and the metallic tang of blood that has seeped into the floorboards. It is not a modern kitchen. There are no electric stoves, no digital timers, no humming refrigerators. There is only the iron stove, blackened by decades of soot, and...
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