The Pale Verdict
The silence in the kitchen was not empty; it was heavy, textured like the wool of the sweater you were wearing. You stood by the stove, the burner clicking on with a rhythmic, mechanical hiss, and watched the steam rise from the pot. It was a simple broth. Chicken, carrots, celery. Nothing exotic, nothing that required a degree in chemistry or a prayer to a saint. Just food. But in your line of...
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