The Faded Portrait
The soup was red. Not the polite, tomato-based red of a Sunday lunch, but a thick, arterial crimson that pooled in the bottom of the bowl like a wound that refused to close. You sat at the head of the long oak table in the community hall, the wood grain rough under your palms, listening to the hum of the ventilation system overhead. It was the annual harvest feast for the town of Oakhaven, a...
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