The Distant Promise
The bread is gone. You remember the smell of it before you remember the taste, a sour, yeasty exhale that clung to the stone walls of the cellar where you and Thomas kept the last of the harvest. It is a memory that has worn thin, like the hem of a shirt rubbed against gravel, until the scent itself feels less like a physical reality and more like a phantom limb aching in the dark. You are...
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