The Distant Affair
The pot sat upon the iron range, bubbling with a slow, rhythmic patience that seemed to mock the frantic, jagged pulse of my own heart. It was a thick, brown stew, the kind we used to make in the old country before the smoke cleared and the world ended, but here in this cold, soot-stained kitchen in London, it smelled of ash and failure. I watched the steam rise, curling into shapes that my...
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