The Golden Circuit
The dream was always of the bread. It rose in the dark, a pale, sweating dome in the center of the room, expanding against the ceiling beams until the wood groaned in protest. Thomas had not slept in three days, his body a hollowed-out vessel where only the thrumming anxiety of the plague lived. He woke with the taste of yeast and dust on his tongue, the phantom weight of a loaf still pressing...
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