The Golden Myth
The bread is burning. It is not a metaphor, though in the hush of this ancient, stone-walled kitchen, where the air tastes of damp moss and centuries of unwashed wool, it feels less like a culinary failure and more like a cosmic indictment, a charred testament to the fact that you, Thomas, have finally, irrevocably, lost your mind. The blackened crust curls upward in the iron skillet like a...
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