The Golden Myth
The soup was cold. It sat in the chipped tin bowl, a grey slurry of turnips and stale bread, thick with a sediment of despair. You stared at it. The steam had long since died, leaving only the smell of boiled root vegetables and the damp, rotting wood of the walls. Outside, the rain lashed against the single pane of glass, a relentless, rhythmic tapping that sounded like fingers knocking for...
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