The Pale Shadows
The flour is in your lungs. You taste it. It is a dry, chalky taste, like licking a wall in an empty room. You are standing in the back of the bakery, behind the heavy iron ovens. The heat is a physical weight against your chest. It presses you into the floor. You are not supposed to be here. You are supposed to be at the counter. You are supposed to be smiling. You are supposed to be selling...
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