The Wistful Atlas
The bread was stale. Not dry, not hard, but stale in the way that time rots a thing from the inside out. Silas sat on the cold floor of the bakery, his back against the stone wall, holding the loaf in his hands. It was the last one. The oven had gone cold three days ago. The flour had run out two days ago. But the bread remained. It sat on the table like a stone, heavy and gray, waiting to be...
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