The Distant Temple
The kettle screamed. I let it. It was the only honest sound in the room. The steam curled, thick and white, a ghost trying to escape the glass. I watched it dissipate into the cold air. The apartment was small. Too small for the silence. It was a box made of concrete and old regrets. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a man who makes soup. Not just any soup. The broth is a complex chemistry. A...
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