The Golden Visit
The bread was stale. It had been baked in the hearth of the manor house three days prior, a time that felt both impossibly distant and achingly immediate to Sir Thomas Ashworth as he sat by the fire. The crust was hard as flint, the interior dry and crumbly, a testament to the passage of hours that he had tried so desperately to erase. He broke off a piece, the sound sharp in the silence of the...
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