The Wistful Ashes
The silence that followed the departure of the city’s last honest baker was not merely an absence of sound, but a heavy, suffocating weight that settled into the marrow of the district’s bones, a physical pressure that made it difficult to breathe the recycled air that drifted through the narrow, glass-walled corridors of Sector Four, where the light was always a sterile, bluish-white that did...
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