The Faded Photograph
The bread in the cellar had begun to weep, a slow, damp exudation of mold that smelled of rot and ancient rain, and Julian watched it with the detached curiosity of a man observing the slow decay of his own body, knowing that the yeast within the loaf was not merely a biological agent but a living, breathing thing that had been betrayed by the cold, by the darkness, by the very hands that had...
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