The Wistful Cipher
The smell of yeast and rye hung in the air of the cellar, thick enough to taste on the back of the tongue. It was a smell that had defined my life for thirty years, a scent that was less an odor and more a presence, a living thing that breathed in the dark stone walls of my home. I stood before the large oak table, my hands stained yellow with turmeric and flour, the dough beneath my palms warm...
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