The Distant Ghost
You stand in the kitchen, the air thick with the smell of rendered fat and rosemary, your hands trembling not from cold but from a fear so deep it has calcified into stone. The city outside is a labyrinth of stone and shadow, the year indistinguishable from the next, the centuries blurred into a single, endless breath. You are Eleanor, and you have been baking this bread for three days. It is...
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