The Distant Affair
The bread is cold, you know it is cold, not merely in the sense that the oven has died and the hearth is a black mouth of ash, but in the deep, marrow-deep chill that seeps into the loaf itself, a chill that mirrors the stagnation of your own blood as you sit in the kitchen of a house that no longer feels like yours but rather a cell waiting for its sentence to be read, and you hold the crust...
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