The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-20 16:15:09 -

The bread was black. Not burnt. Black. Like the soil of a grave. Like the ink of a secret kept for too long. Margaret woke in the cellar. The air was thick. It tasted of copper and rot. She was not alone. Or perhaps she was. The distinction had blurred. The wall was stone. Cold. Damp. Weeping. She looked at her hands. They were trembling. The flour dust on her fingers was grey. Ash. "You are...

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